


The Proposal

by ponticle



Series: 'The Proposal' Universe [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bisexuality, Closeted Character, Cullistair, Divorce, Friends to Lovers, Heartbreaking, Imminent Death, Kidney failure, M/M, Men in love, Modern Era, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 44,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4261329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair and Cullen have been friends since school, but when Cullen reveals his plans to propose to Icis Lavellan, his long-time girlfriend, Alistair doesn’t take it well. Romantic, heartbreaking, angsty relationship between our two favorite templars set in the modern age.</p><p>EDIT: This story is now complete. :) </p><p>Thank you for reading!! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair realizes that these feelings are never going to go away. He's going to have to deal with them.

Alistair was of two minds. He had a wife—a fabulous one. Bella Surana put his needs above her own and he loved her– _He really did_. Some days he could almost cry thinking about their love story. It was made for TV, good and bright and without any discernible flaws.

Cullen was a wildcard. He was unpredictable—he acted on his own volition. He smelled like oakmoss and elderflower; starlight danced in his eyes when he smiled. _Their_ romance was something plucked from 19th century novels—mired in complication, steeped in misunderstanding and  _completely_ unrequited.

**June 2015**

Alistair was suddenly sobbing. His legs threatened to buckle as tears streamed down his face and he pushed his hands frantically through his hair.

 _Cullen is getting_ _married_.

He “had to"—Cullen’s words, not his. His explanation on the phone had simultaneously fallen short and incited something deep and ugly in Alistair's psyche.

_Why did he even call? Is he punishing me?_

* * *

 

"It’s ironic that you had that dream about me this week,” Cullen began. “I wanted to tell you something that day, but I wasn’t alone.”

Alistair held his breath as he recalled the dream. It was still so vivid; he remembered the way Cullen’s stubble felt on his palm. He dreamed that Cullen was going to move to the Pacific Northwest and—in dream logic—that meant they would never see each other again. He woke shaking in a pool of sweat and immediately contacted Cullen—Alistair couldn’t help it. He didn’t tell him the details, of course—just the ones that didn’t betray his feelings. Reliving the dream, he almost forgot he was on the phone. Cullen’s voice snapped him back to the present.

“I decided that I had to propose to Icis,” he said plainly.

Alistair steadied his breathing. Even his expression, which Cullen could not see, stayed neutral. “Wow,” he mustered. “What made you decide to do that?” he probed.

“Everything has just been going so perfectly… It seemed like the right time,” he answered thoughtfully.

Alistair wondered if he could speak. Was it  _possible_  to do so without oxygen? The air suddenly felt empty. His voice strangled and died in his throat.

“Are you there?” Cullen asked jovially.

“I’m here,” he somehow managed the words. “I know I’m  _actually_  married, but it just seems  _wrong_  for you to get married,” he blurted out—a single moment of honesty in the midst of lies. His shock was pervasive enough to make him brave.

Cullen laughed—the laugh of a person without a care in the world.

_How is he doing that?_

Cullen began to explain the intricacies of his decision making process, but Alistair didn’t hear a word. His mind was at once buzzing and blank.

“Alistair?” Cullen asked.

Alistair realized he was holding his breath again. “…I see,” he stammered. “Well, Cullen I’m really happy for you,” he lied convincingly. “I have to go because I’m outside and it’s raining and I have to walk home, but we’ll talk soon… And I’ll see you in two weeks.”

He hung up.

 

* * *

 

 The sky had opened up while he was on the phone. The small awning that shielded him during their conversation seemed unimportant now. He stepped out into the pouring rain and began to walk home. Water soaked through his thick reddish hair, sticking it to his face and neck in spots. His shoes squeaked as water infiltrated the soles and his glasses fogged up until he couldn’t really see. At least the rain hid his tears. In his mind, he replayed the conversation again and again, wishing he had said something different. This was a trend—he  _always_  wished he said more to Cullen. Never before had it been so poignant.

 By the time Alistair reached his stoop, he was completely soaked, but he barely noticed. This was the punishment for cowardice, he surmised. All this time he had never admitted his feelings for Cullen and now he was moving on. He swore under his breath— _of course he was_. After all,  _he_  was already married. It wasn’t up to Cullen to make a grand gesture, because Alistair had already made the  _grandest_  of gestures.

Alistair kicked off his ruined shoes in the hallway and began stripping off his soaked clothes. He thanked the maker that Bella was away for work. Sporadically sobbing, he approached his bathtub, leaving a trail of soaked clothing behind.

Stepping gingerly into the steaming water, he considered himself as objectively as possible. He was smart and witty and somewhat wicked in a way he thought of as an asset. And based on his recent hobbies he was fit—more fit than he had any right to be.  _Why wouldn’t Cullen pick him?_  he thought fleetingly. He knew he was past the point of making sense now; he had devolved into a sad sack of a human who could only mindlessly ramble.  He held his breath and dunked his head under the water. He drank in the hum of water filling around his ears. If only he could drown out his  _internal_  screaming.

* * *

 

The next morning, Alistair awoke from bed as tired as he had gone to sleep. His dreams were haunted by a variety of unlikely,  _but disturbing_ , scenarios. He grabbed his glasses from the nightstand and forced them clumsily onto his face. Stumbling toward the bathroom he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked  _rough_. His hair was matted and wild from sleeping on it wet. His eyes were bloodshot and his face tear-worn. And although his body was lithe and lean, he couldn’t maintain his posture properly—gravity seemed to be weighing down on him too heavily.

“Well this is great….” He said aloud.

Grabbing his toothbrush, he absently cleaned his teeth, all the while keeping eye contact with his reflection. His chest was sore—he felt like he had swum the English Channel last night.  _Swum? Swam?_  He could never keep those straight. He had an urge to tell someone about this whole mess. It was probably a mistake. Admitting that he was having these feelings for Cullen would be tantamount to revealing his darkest, most embarrassing, secret—a secret he had kept faithfully for the last seven years. His heart hurt, though, and he couldn’t stop himself—his phone was sitting on the vanity.

He texted Isabela—the other member of the so-called boys’ club. “Cullen is getting married!!!!”

“What???” She sent back immediately.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavily edited 1/3/16 to fit with the character of the piece.


	2. Bravery and Cowardice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair finally tells Cullen how he feels and Cullen deals with the fallout.

**Fall 2015**

**Cullen**

"Fine," Cullen bit his bottom lip—chewed it. He felt  _nervous_  and he seemed to have lost control of his face. "…we'll go—we'll just  _go_." He didn't mean it. Although he knew it was inappropriate, he couldn't control his sarcasm.

Alistair stared at him, agape.

"Isn't that what you want me to say?!" he was suddenly yelling.

"Cullen—" Alistair reached out for him.

"Don't touch me," snarled Cullen. He swatted Alistair's hand away. This is all too much—too  _real_ , a voice inside insisted.

Alistair inhaled sharply and pushed up his glasses for the millionth time that night.

 

* * *

 

Just two hours ago, everything was fine— _normal_. How  _dare_  he say those words? How  _could_ he? Especially when Cullen was  _just starting_  to get his life together. He finally resigned himself to a life with Icis. She was  _good_  and  _sweet_  and there was nothing wrong with her—wasn't that enough? But now—this talk of  _love_  and _parity_  and  _inextricable links_...

 "I'm getting out of here," said Cullen finally. His chest hurt.

"I don’t think you should be driving," said Alistair. They  _had_  been drinking, but Cullen never drank enough to get drunk—Alistair  _knew_ that.

"I'm  _fine_ ," he said through gritted teeth.

"You can leave if you want," said Alistair, following him, "but I'll drive you."

Alistair's tumbler of scotch sat on the coffee table, untouched. Cullen realized it had been a prop.

"Fine," he growled. Cullen hung his head and gestured angrily toward the door. "After you…"

 

Inside the car, Alistair adjusted the seat and mirrors painstakingly slowly.

Cullen looked out the window—the city lights strobed between the rows of buildings. The silence between them hung like fog.

"I'm just saying, Cullen," began Alistair suddenly, "you don't  _have to_  do this…"

Cullen seethed—as if Alistair was the arbiter of all things logical and good. Arguing with him had  _always_  been infuriating.

"…If someone had told  _me_  that, I might not have ended up in this situation," continued Alistair. "Remember that day—it was our first year at school… I was sitting on the floor in your apartment…"

Cullen didn't need him to continue talking—he knew the day all too well. Alistair was nervous about Bella moving in. He was going on and on about feeling trapped and conflicted.

"I was sitting there—staring up at you in your desk chair…  _crying_ …" Alistair continued. "It was the most vulnerable I've  _ever_  let myself be with you... and I think... I think I was  _hoping_  you'd give me a way out. You'd tell me it was  _okay_  to say no."

Cullen  _hadn't_  done that, though. He told him to 'man up'—that Bella was a _smart_ choice.

"And now I realize," continued Alistair, tension rising in his voice, "that there was something  _else_  too—I wanted you to kneel down on the floor with me and say you loved me."

Cullen looked at Alistair for the first time since they got into the car.

" _That_ was the moment— _that_  was our chance to change this before everything got endlessly complicated," Alistair concluded.

"Stop the car," said Cullen. His voice came out surprisingly low and snarling.

"What?" said Alistair, with surprise.

"Stop the  _damn_  car," said Cullen again. "Just  _pull over_."

Alistair obeyed around the next corner. He rolled to a stop on the edge of a dusty embankment and cut the engine and lights.

"I don't feel that way about you," said Cullen, seriously. "I never did." Cullen's mind bucked furiously. He just  _couldn't_  admit it—he  _wouldn't_.

Alistair took a deep breath. "I don't  _believe_  you," said Alistair quietly. He turned to face Cullen and looked him squarely in the eye.

Cullen noticed the flecks of yellow among the brown fibers of Alistair's eyes. They were familiar—everything about him was.

"We're not going to be able to see each other anymore," Cullen said suddenly.

The words formed in his mouth before he had a chance to inspect them—his mind was brimming with newly found truths he wouldn't acknowledge.

Alistair's shoulders slumped.

"It's not good for either of us," continued Cullen.

" _What_  are you talking about?" said Alistair. His voice was thick with indignation. "When we're  _together_ , we're at our best."

Cullen felt his pulse in his throat.

"When I'm with you, Cullen, I'm strong and I'm brave and I'm clever…" Alistair turned, placing a hand on Cullen's knee. "…and you're deep and thoughtful—you  _care_  about people when we're together."

Cullen opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again noiselessly. Instead, he did something he didn't expect. He grabbed Alistair's head and dragged his face across the car. Their lips crashed in an angry cacophony of sighs and whimpers. Cullen tangled his fingers in Alistair's wiry hair and ran his palm over his stubble.

When Alistair pulled away, he was panting through glistening lips and his eyes were wide with fear.

Cullen managed a smile.

Alistair beamed. He wrapped his arms around Cullen's neck and kissed him with abandon. In the moments before everything went black, Cullen realized he had never felt so alive.

 

* * *

 

"Ser, are you all right?"

Cullen blinked and coughed. He was lying on the ground, covered in dirt, a flashlight in his eyes.

"What—?" he coughed again, "where am I?" He tried to sit up, but the paramedic put a hand on his shoulder.

"Just stay right here for me, okay?" she said.

Cullen's head was swimming. He blinked into the light and realized he couldn't see out of his left eye—it was swollen shut.

"We've got another one over here—he's unresponsive," called a woman over his left shoulder.

 _Alistair_.

"Alistair—his name is Alistair," he choked.

"Thank you, Ser," she said, "We'll handle your friend, okay?" She stood and crossed to where the other voices were shouting.

In the blinding haze of blue and red flashes, Cullen pushed himself up on his shoulders and craned his neck. Then he saw it—a shock of red hair against the pavement. Ragged breaths heralded by wispy white tendrils.

"Alistair!" he yelled, trying to drag himself up. As he stood, his vision blurred and white noise wrapped him like a cocoon.

  

* * *

 

The next time Cullen opened his eyes, he was blinded by white—the sterile interior of a hospital that smelled of bleach. Icis was next to him, looking expectant.

"Cullen," she gripped his hand, "I got here as soon as I could." Her eyes were threatening to fill with tears.

His jaw hurt as he opened his mouth. "Alistair?" he was suddenly frantic, "where's Alistair?" He breathed in sharply, "is he okay?"

Icis looked surreptitiously over her shoulder out the doorway before answering.

"He's in the ICU." She wrung her hands in her lap.

Cullen felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. His eyes filled with tears. Icis cupped his cheek in her hand.

"I'm so sorry, Cullen," she whispered.

"When can I see him?" asked Cullen, desperately.

"They're planning to release you soon," said Icis. "The doctor was just here. She was going to run some tests and come back after you've talked to the police officers."

Cullen's brow knit— _officers?_ "What do they want?" he asked.

"They just want to ask some questions about the crash…" she motioned to someone in the hallway and stepped back as two uniformed officers entered. One was tall and thin with a graying beard, the other was short and round with pink cheeks—he looked as if he had just come in from a winter snowscape.

"Cullen Rutherford?" said the shorter one, tipping his hat, "we just have a few questions about your accident."

"Okay," said Cullen weakly. He tried to straighten onto the pillows behind him.

"What do you remember?" asked the tall thin one.

"Not much," said Cullen truthfully. "One second, we were sitting there… the next… everything went black." He licked his lip, remembering Alistair's stubble and noticed a deep gouge pulling on his upper lip. He cursed silently—that would certainly become a scar.

"The other driver came around the corner at nearly fifty miles per hour and toppled your car into the ravine," said the tall one, "it's no wonder you didn't see it."

The short cop was writing in a small notepad. "And what were you doing there?"

Cullen was suddenly dumb. His mouth refused to form words and his mind hitched. How could he possibly explain this with Icis in the room?

"Ser?" asked the round one, "Why were you parked on the side of a back road?"

Cullen's body was wrecked, but the trembling he felt was  _not_ a result of his injuries.

"We were… talking…" he mumbled.

"About what, Ser?" asked the thin one.

"N-nothing," he stammered. He could feel a blush crossing his cheeks. "I mean.. we're old friends… we were just catching up. We live 1500 miles apart…" he was over sharing now. He desperately wanted to get up.

"Officers," interjected Icis gently, "I think my fiancé has been through enough tonight. Maybe we could pick this back up another time. After all, we haven't been able to check on Alistair yet…"

Cullen felt horrible—Icis was so kind. She was the most thoughtful person he had ever met… His guilt was a weight around his neck.

When the officers were gone Icis settled in next to him again. "Would you like me to check on him?" she asked.

Cullen swallowed hard, "no. I just want to see him myself."

Icis looked at him skeptically, "I'll see what I can do."

 

* * *

 

 

Two floors up, they entered the ICU. The air was colder here and everyone spoke in hushed whispers. Around the corner, a woman was quietly sobbing. Each doctor and nurse wore a foreboding expression.

"Here we are," said Icis, pushing him into the room.

Bella was leaning over Alistair and gripping his hand. Her position blocked Cullen's view of Alistair's face, but he could tell from her body language that the situation was grim.

"Bella?"

"Cullen!" she stood and crossed to him, gathering him into a desperate hug. "I'm so glad you're okay. I was so worried." She pulled away and looked at his face discerningly. "You look okay."

"Thanks," said Cullen. He was straining to look around her, both desperate and horrified to see Alistair's face.

When his eyes landed on Alistair's features, he gasped. The left side of his face was swollen beyond recognition and his left neck and shoulder were purple beneath his hospital gown. Cullen didn't think—he reached. He grasped the edge of Alistair's bed and pulled himself closer until he could grip his hand.

When he finally pulled his face away Bella was looking at him strangely.

"I can't help but think that this was my fault," he said quietly.

"Don't say that," said Bella. It sounded rehearsed. "What  _were_  you doing out there, though? I thought you guys were going to be staying at our house until I got home?" She looked suspicious in a way that Icis hadn't mustered— _yet_.

"We were just driving—" he lied lamely.

Cullen turned his attention to the monitor on the other side of Alistair's bed. Each peak and valley seemed to increase the distance between them. Looking at Alistair now he realized he might never have a chance to fix this. His memory was not a good enough substitute for the real thing—he cursed and screamed and lamented all the wasted time inside his mind.

Behind him, Icis approached.

"Cullen," she placed a hand on his shoulder, "maybe we should go back to your room now… Bella will come get us if anything changes."

He nodded, but letting go of Alistair's hand seemed impossible. As Icis rolled his chair further away from the bed, his arm and fingertips stretched to their limit. Outside, he shuddered.


	3. 6 Months Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this prequel chapter, Alistair and Cullen attend a conference held at their former school. Alistair is nostalgic. Sad... angst...

**Spring 2015**

**Alistair**

Cullen reached across the desk and picked up Alistair’s water bottle. Alistair watched as Cullen gingerly unscrewed the cap and drank out of it. In the time since they sat at these desks daily, Alistair forgot that Cullen was like this. He forgot how comfortable they were together. He forgot the level of intimacy that comes with sharing spit. Not that they had ever shared… _spit_  — not like  _that_ , anyway.

“Do you love her?” asked Alistair. He heard himself say it before he had a chance to examine the words. Cursing internally, he forced the corners of his mouth up into a nonchalant smile.

“As much as I’m capable of loving anyone,” said Cullen wryly.

Alistair nodded and looked down at his palms.

“We’ll be engaged by the end of summer, I’d say,” continued Cullen.

Alistair’s breath caught.  _Engaged._  The word felt heavy. He knew very well that it shouldn’t have. He, himself, was married… had been for over 3 years. They were adults now — adults eventually get married and have to separate from their friends. Of course, Alistair  _hadn’t_  done that — not in any meaningful way. Even though they lived on opposite ends of the continent, he thought about Cullen every day.

“That’s a big step,” said Alistair, not looking up from his hands. He ran his right thumb over the calluses on his left hand. Deep, rough, gouges from heavy iron kettlebells–his weapons of choice lately.

“Yeah,” said Cullen dreamily. He rubbed the back of his neck with his palm and smiled at a spot on the floor in front of them.

Alistair didn’t know what to say. He was inclined to make a joke. Doing this, especially at Cullen’s expense, was his default deflection in emotional situations. Before he had a chance, Isabela was behind them.

“Hey boys,” she said, sliding into the seat on Alistair’s right.

“Hey,” said Alistair, thankful for the distraction, “did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” said Isabela.

She unpacked her conference bag onto the long desk in front of them.

“It was a little weird with Morrigan — she’s dating that new guy now…” said Isabela absently, “so it’s sort of  _lame_ , but not horrible.”

Cullen and Alistair laughed in unison.

Isabela’s phone chirped and she rolled her eyes. “It’s Hawke again… oh maker… She’s sent me 10 texts since last night.”

She pushed the phone into Alistair’s face and he laughed. Each text was more alarmist than the one before. It read like a recipe for frustration.

_I just wish you would call if you say you’re going to._

_I know you’re out with your friends, but I would appreciate a call to say goodnight._

_I don’t even know where you are — you could be dead for all I know…_

_How hard is it to send a quick text — or step away for a second??_

Alistair looked at Isabela incredulously. “This is something you really want to get into, huh?”

Isabela rubbed her forehead and ran a hand through her hair… “I know it’s not ideal… but I really love her…” she trailed off.

Alistair rolled his eyes and thought about Bella. He had barely contacted her since beginning this trip. Her work was very important, after all, and she would be doing things with her friends all weekend while he was away, he rationalized. He felt a pang of guilt, though — there was a time when he would have called her each night to say he loved her, regardless of the situation. He  _still_  loved her; he  _still_  meant it. He just didn’t remember to call.

* * *

 

As the lecture began, Alistair took an inventory of his surroundings. It felt strange to be back here — back in these classrooms that once monopolized his life. The grey walls and fluorescent lighting were no less abrasive now than they were then, but his nostalgia abounded. He remembered Cullen in those first days. They used to have different seats. Alistair began in the front left row of the stadium-style lecture hall. Cullen sat to his left, one row up, constantly harassing Alistair’s friend by kicking her chair during class.

Over time, their seats moved. Alistair glanced down at the third row. They sat in the second and third-to-last seats on the left for what felt like forever. Those were the times before anything complex happened. Alistair still regretted the part he played in the fight that eventually led him to the first row on the right side of the lecture hall. He wasn't even sure what the fight had been about, but the few weeks they spent not speaking were torturous.

Alistair leaned in and rested his elbows on the desk. His body felt the pain of separation like it was yesterday. Losing Cullen was like losing an arm. Before their unexpected break, he didn’t know he was capable of feeling rejection like that.  _Capable —_ there was that word again.

_As much as I’m capable of loving anyone._

Alistair rolled over the words in his mind. He wished he’d said something different — something  _braver_. “Not as much as you love me.” or at least, “Give yourself a little credit.” But he hadn’t said anything. He never did when it counted. Alistair shook his head, clearing the haze of his memories. They seemed to have shrouded everything.

* * *

 

“Dr. Theirin?” called the speaker, “Would you use contrast CT or MRI in this situation?”

Alistair blushed. He didn’t realize so many people here still knew his name. He straightened in his chair and cleared his throat, desperately trying to scan the case history on the projector.

He coughed, “um… CT?” he said — a guess.

“That’s right, let’s move on…”

Cullen elbowed Alistair in the ribs, “that was close…  _where were you_?” He reached across him to grab his water again.

Alistair just smiled. He was with Cullen —  _like he was in all his dreams_.


	4. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, our intrepid heroes meet for the first time and we gain insight into how their bond was forged. 
> 
> Edited 1/4/16

**October 2008**

**Cullen**

Cullen timed his exit carefully. He wanted to seem friendly, but not overly eager. Rounding the corner, he smiled. When their steps hit the pavement in time, he asked, "where are you staying?"

Alistair made a face that Cullen couldn't quite understand, "Just through the hedges… I'm  _living_  there," he finally answered. "Where are you _staying_?" His face was curled into a smirk—sarcastic and a little critical.

"I am staying there too…" This was Cullen's first time living away from home and it showed in his language, apparently. At best, he had 100 feet to make his case. Their footfalls fell into rhythm like a practiced marching band. Cullen talked; Alistair talked. Neither of them said anything.

Passing through the line of hedges that separated the school and their new apartment complex, he knew the time had come.

"Give me your number, in case I hear of something going on later?" he tried to sound nonchalant. "And you let me know if you hear anything too…"

"Okay, here you go," Alistair offered.

"All right, I'll call you later," Cullen said, running off to the left of a huge sycamore tree, trying to seem busy. He counted to 10 in his head before turning to look—Alistair was looking too.

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

Alistair smiled to himself as he forced the key into his lock and pushed the door open with his shoulder. Truthfully, he hadn't noticed Cullen in their classes, but he was meeting so many people these days—it was hard to keep track. His first few days of graduate school had been  _trying_. The biggest problem was his lack of study skills. During his formative years, he breezed through school—rarely studying, never putting in the hours of hard work that he knew most people required. Now, he feared it would catch up with him. He knew that if he was going to succeed, he would need allies.

Partly because of this fact, he picked up the phone when Cullen called that night. 

Three hours later, they were driving to some house party on the edge of town— _their town_. Alistair rolled the words around in his mind, appraisingly. He wasn't used to the change.

"You seem like the sort of person who only likes music  _until_  it catches on," said Cullen, flipping through stations on the radio.

Alistair was impressed by his perceptiveness, but lied, "That's not true. I like all kinds of music." He wanted to seem agreeable. For some reason, Cullen's opinion of him mattered—more than it  _should_.

The seats of Cullen's jeep were smooth leather—the color of caramel—and the interior was _immaculately_  clean. He mused that Cullen might be a little neurotic, but in a functional way.

Alistair stared out the window, keeping his posture and face neutral. The streetlights illuminated grid-like avenues. Growing up in New England, Alistair was out of his element. He was used to winding roads dotted with colonial houses and brick businesses several hundred years old. Here, everything was new—even the asphalt sparkled with flecks of silver and green.

"Ready?" said Cullen as he cut the engine outside a taupe-colored ranch.

Alistair eyed the house warily. He wasn't usually comfortable in loud, crowded, places. Something about Cullen made him brave, though.

"Yeah," he forced his face into a daring smile, "let's do it."

"Whenever you want to leave," said Cullen as he hopped onto the ground and straightened his collar, "just let me know."

Alistair nodded. They had an accord—this perfect stranger had seen through his brave exterior and practiced smile. He  _knew_  him. It was like he had grown up down the street instead of wherever he was from—certainly not Massachusetts.

 

As it approached 2am, Alistair wanted to get going, but he wasn't sure where his new partner-in-crime ended up. Scanning the crowd, he caught a glimpse of his unruly blonde hair and casual smile. As Cullen approached, their eyes locked. Alistair tried to intimate that he needed to be rescued. A very strange girl in their class was talking about water consumption and pH balance in a wholly unscientific way that Alistair  _couldn't_  tolerate.

"Ready to get going?" asked Cullen, stepping between them.

"Well," said Alistair standing a bit  _too_  quickly, "I wouldn’t want to hold you up…"

They exchanged an understanding look.

"We're going to take Merrill home too…" said Cullen, looking at his feet.

Alistair made a face transiently, but regained his composure before Cullen had a chance to analyze its meaning.

"Okay, where does she live?" asked Alistair.

"Just across the street from us…"

 

 Alistair was relegated to the back seat on the way home. Merrill was slurring her speech and threatening to throw up all over the immaculately clean interior of Cullen's car. Alistair watched her curly brown hair fly haphazardly in the Floridian wind and wondered what he was doing here in the first place. He half-wished he'd stayed home.

When they made it to her doorway, she stumbled out into the parking lot. Alistair was inclined to step out of the car and help her with her next ten steps, but Cullen beat him to it. Outside the thin glass pane, Merrill was yelling about Cullen not wanting her there. Obviously, she thought something  _else_  was going to happen before Alistair slid into the back seat.

"Wow," said Cullen when she finally wobbled into her door, "she was  _so_  drunk." A laugh tugged on his upper lip.

Alistair climbed over the center console clumsily, but managed not to touch his shoes to any leather. He didn't know Cullen very well— _at all,_  really—but he thought that getting scuffmarks in his car would be unforgivable.

"Yeah…" Alistair settled into the seat, but his foot hit something—a black, sparkly heel, easily five inches tall. He reached down to pick it up, "She left her shoe…"

Alistair hit the light in the center of the car to show Cullen. After a tense moment of silence, they burst out laughing in unison.

The rest of the way home, they didn't talk. They didn't need to. Alistair knew they were kindred.

"Thanks, Cullen," said Alistair, closing the jeep door.

"See ya…" said Cullen, his left dimple a bit deeper than his right. "Call me if you want to do something again…"


	5. Eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair wakes up after his accident and draws parallels in the past and present.

**Fall 2015**

**Alistair**

Before Alistair opened his eyes, he was quite sure he was dead. His body was not his own. His skin felt tight and his muscles ached. Even his eyelids seemed atrophied—opening them was a struggle.

In the lone chair of the sterile hospital room, Bella was lightly snoring. Her long brown hair made a curtain over her left cheek and although her eyes were closed, her lips were moving wordlessly. Her dreams were often vivid. Alistair almost called out to her, but waking her seemed cruel—especially after what they had been going through lately. About two weeks before the night he told Cullen how he felt, Alistair had inexplicably set up the guest room and closed the door. They hadn’t fought, they hadn’t argued, they hadn’t even talked about it. One moment everything was fine and the next he was sleeping alone.

The  _first_  night Alistair slept alone, Bella was in bed next to him. He turned away from her onto his left side and silently seethed. It wasn’t that he was  _angry_ —he was annoyed. Primarily because he got himself into this situation in the first place. This situation of sleeping next to someone who he knew incredibly well, but about whom he couldn’t stay interested. It was awfully unfair. The unfairness of it and his inability to overcome his turbulent emotions was what caused him to turn over in the first place. The six inches of air between them could have been the Berlin wall.

“Good night now…” said Alistair over his shoulder.

Bella leaned around his neck and kissed his cheek. “I love you,” she said.

“...love you, good night,” he mumbled. It wasn’t a  _lie_  per se… It was true that he loved her—he had for over a decade. That sort of thing doesn’t just go  _away_. The lie was in the flavor of that love. Certainly, he wanted her to be successful and happy and grow into whatever type of person she wanted to be… but he hadn’t been able to muster romantic feelings about her in ages—long enough that he couldn’t remember when.

This business with Cullen was the last straw, of course. He was finally at the point in his life when he could admit that Cullen had been a dividing force in their relationship for years. In the moments he spent deciding if he was—in fact— _alive_ , he remembered one particular day that hurt:

 

* * *

 

**April 2009**

"Do we have any eggs?" scribbled Alistair. He passed the note surreptitiously to Cullen on his right and looked up expectantly.

Cullen's chin rested gently against his left thumb; his fist covered his lips. In a lot of ways, he was a much better student than Alistair was. He was better at _listening_ , certainly. Alistair wasn't used to people being better at things than he was, but with Cullen, he didn't mind. Right now, all he cared about—ostensibly—was the egg situation.

Cullen looked at the note with passing interest. His eyes scanned from left to right and a quizzical expression tugged on his upper lip.

Alistair grinned. If there was one thing Alistair excelled at, it was language. When he said  ** _we,_** he meant it to elicit a response.

"We're married," wrote Cullen. His handwriting was small, slanted, barely legible. He circled it for emphasis.

Alistair pulled the page back into his space on the desk. He ignored the two encircled words and instead wrote beneath, "How many of them aren't hard boiled?"

"6" wrote Cullen in a huge, messy hand—a stark contrast from his assertion of their relationship arrangement.

Alistair, never satisfied with Cullen's lackluster written conversation skills, upped the ante.

" **WE**  may as well give in—Isabela says so," he wrote. "Your dog already thinks I live there."  He smiled—he could feel how boyish he must look. He often had the experience of appraising himself from the outside. Alistair had two skills, primarily. He could always express what he meant in print and he could _nearly_ always tell what he seemed like to other people. He considered these necessary survival skills—especially with Cullen, whose moods were hard to read.

"I wouldn't want to cheat on Icis," wrote Cullen.

Alistair frowned. Cullen never played along when he wanted him to. Yesterday, Cullen  _almost_  had:

 

* * *

 

          Cullen: I look good in this beanie, don't I?

          Alistair: You always look good.

          Cullen: But I look especially good in this hat.. right?

          Alistair: Hmmm. I'm not sure... don't let it go over your eyebrows.

          Cullen: See...? That's the kind of thing I'd never know on my own.

          Alistair: Aren't you glad I'm here?

          Cullen:  _always_

 

* * *

 

 _Always_. That word felt important. At the time, he wanted to say something else—something that would push Cullen to be more overt, but he could never think of the right thing when it counted. This was in direct opposition to his earlier internal assertion that he was a wiz with words. If he was so good with words, why did Cullen keep stumping him?

Alistair sighed, looking up at the whiteboard. They had a huge exam coming up.

"How do you want to study for this lab practical?" he wrote. "I'm getting nervous about it."

"We'll do it together," wrote Cullen. His handwriting was tiny and jagged again.

"Okay. When?" Alistair's letters were a scrawling sort of cursive that took up six times as much space as Cullen's.

Cullen scratched his head and pulled the page in front of him. Alistair looked over his shoulder. Cullen seemed to be constructing some type of complicated scheduling rubric with all their class names, dates, and times. Alistair appreciated this type of methodical planning. It was something Alistair used to do for himself. Now, though, he didn't have to—that's what Cullen was here for. It occurred to him that this newfound friendship—or whatever it was—was becoming central to the way he functioned in the world. If Cullen suddenly went _away_ Alistair doubted that he would be able to go back to his old habits. He shuddered reflexively. He was an  _addict_ —obsessed with feeling cared for. It was the one thing he's always promised himself he wouldn't be. In his life with Bella, he prided himself on independence. They both worked on their separate projects and united at the end to celebrate. By contrast, he was beginning to _rely_ on Cullen.

 

* * *

 

**Fall 2015**

Back in the fluorescent lighting of the hospital, Alistair realized that the least comfortable thing about this arrangement with Cullen was its inequity. Alistair had never been in a situation where he could be hurt. His whole life with Bella was  _safe_. He sighed audibly.

Her face suddenly changed and she shot up in her chair.

“It’s okay,” he attempted to say. His voice was alarmingly quiet and raspy. He wondered if she could understand him.

“Alistair?” she rushed to his side, squinting her eyes to make them focus.

He smiled up at her, his head still resting on the pillow. Bella eyed him in a way that made him wonder what he looked like.

“How are you feeling?” she asked cautiously, gripping his right hand.

“Okay,” he croaked. “How long was I out?”

“Almost two weeks,” said Bella. Her expression was grave.

Alistair thought he might be raising an eyebrow, but his face felt foreign.

“Where’s Cullen?” he asked. He didn’t  _want_  to ask her, but he had to know— _was he all right_?

Bella kept her face neutral, but Alistair could see a small twitch at the edge of her mouth before she answered. He suspected that Bella had known this secret longer than Alistair had even been willing to admit it to himself.

“He’s mostly fine,” she answered, “He went home after only two days.”

Alistair breathed a sigh of relief. The muscles of his jaw relaxed.

“—but Alistair,” said Bella quietly, “he hasn’t been back to see you…”

The relief that was spreading through Alistair’s chest evaporated. He hadn’t been back to see him?  _Not at all_? In two weeks of near-death?

“Well,” said Alistair briskly, “I suppose he had to get home—back to his practice… and Icis… and everything…” he trailed off.

Bella looked like she pitied him. She  _did_  know, then.

“Stings, doesn’t it?” she asked, without a hint of malice.

Alistair was suddenly crying. The weight of the accident and this rejection fell all around him and his eyes wouldn’t stop tearing. His throat was tight. In an alarming show of compassion, Bella put a hand on his cheek and smiled.

“It’s all right,” she said quietly, “you’ll get through this…”

Alistair wanted to believe her.


	6. Rubbish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair finally speaks to Cullen after the accident and deals with the fallout.

**Alistair**

"Trash… trash… trash…  _keep_?"

Alistair wasn't sure why he started this job in the first place—the job of going through his old journals and boxes of things he'd kept since school.

"I have a new best friend," wrote Alistair in one entry from 2009.

Alistair's eyes grew moist around the edges. It was the millionth time he'd cried in the last two weeks. His recovery was going reasonably well, especially considering the extent of his concussion and the broken leg. It kept him home, though, which made him even more susceptible to self-pity than usual. He kept checking his phone. Lots of people had called to wish him a speedy recovery—just not the one who counted.

On the 5th day without word from Cullen, Alistair started throwing things away. It started with a red water bottle that Cullen gave him years ago. Then the notes they passed in class. Next went the pictures, and  _finally_ , he started tearing pages out of his own journals.

This was the hardest part by far. He nearly quit a dozen times before he got through the first book, but he felt compelled to wash the slate clean. The only way to succeed, he thought to himself, was to be systematic. Apply those deductive reasoning skills he used in practice to this. The algorithm of Cullen-related-journals went something like this:

  1. Is this entry primarily about Cullen? If _yes_ , destroy. If _no_ , continue to question 2.
  2. Does this journal reference an event that Cullen was around for? If _yes_ , destroy. If  _no_ , continue to question 3
  3. Is this entry a reminder of Cullen in some obscure way? If _yes_ , destroy. If  _no_ … you’re lying to yourself, Al, destroy it.



 

Alistair laughed aloud—he loved his ability to see humor in the absurdly depressing.

Around the corner, he heard the bolt turn in their front door. Bella had been working late these last few days. He wondered if she was  _really_  busier than  usual or if she was avoiding him.

“Al?” she called from the front hall, “are you awake?”

“Yeah…” he closed the journal labeled 2010 and hid it among his bed linens. He felt like a teenager caught with contraband.

Bella’s long brown hair preceded her into the room as she rounded the corner.

“Hey,” she said, “How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m fine.”

He knew she was just going through the motions. When Bella  _actually_  cared about something, she was much more careful with her words—much more deliberate. Still, he was happy that she wasn’t letting him fend for himself. He could barely get up to use the bathroom alone. Under the circumstances, she was doing more than he deserved.

“You got a letter in the mail today,” she said, dropping a thin white envelope onto the bed next to him. It was addressed to Dr. and Mrs. Alistair Theirin—a strange way to address two people. Alistair knew what it was before he opened it. His heart was in his throat.

Bella stood at his bedside, motionless. Alistair felt her eyes on him.

“Well? Aren’t you going to open it?” she asked. Her voice was high and thin—she was definitely annoyed.

Alistair sighed and tried to drop his shoulders. He tentatively opened the flap and pulled up on the embossed cardstock.

 _You are cordially invited to celebrate the marriage of Dr. Cullen Rutherford and Ms. Icis Lavellan._  Alistair stopped reading as his eyes threatened to tear again.

Bella leaned over his shoulder and mouthed the words silently. “They’re  _still_  getting married?!” she almost yelled.

Alistair nodded without looking up.

“Talk about denial…” she groused.

Alistair laughed humorlessly.

“You should call him,” said Bella, sitting on the bed next to him.

Alistair looked up, slightly horrified. “I’m not calling him—how desperate do you think I am?”

Bella smiled and leaned toward him until her cheek brushed against the edge of his shoulder. Just then, the bed  _crunched_  beneath her.

“What am I sitting on?” she asked. Her eyes were slitted.

Alistair looked down at the mess of papers surrounding the bed and slowly removed the destroyed journal from his sheets.

“Just going through some old stuff…” he said sheepishly.

Bella scowled transiently, but rubbed his forearm with her hand nevertheless. “What is all this??”

“Journals… pictures…” Alistair held up examples of the rubbish he was planning to throw away.

“Why are you getting rid of all this?” asked Bella, picking up a picture of Cullen and Alistair at graduation. “These are your favorite memories—you love this stuff.”

Alistair bit his lip and sipped air, “I can’t look at this… not anymore.”

Bella let the silence hang for what felt like an uncomfortable amount of time to Alistair.

“We don’t have to talk about this, you know,” said Alistair quietly. He interlaced their fingers and turned until they were eye to eye. “I appreciate everything you’re doing—it’s more than I deserve; you should have kicked me out on the street by now…” he smiled hesitantly, “...you don’t  _have_   _to_ do more, you’re not obligated.”

Bella rolled her eyes affectionately, but didn’t speak. Instead, she picked up her phone and started scrolling through her contacts. "You may be too nervous to call him, but I'm not," she said definitely.

Alistair was instantly sweating. "Please don't. Bella, I'm serious,  _don't_..."

She rolled her eyes, ignoring him. "Hi, Icis?" She wore a smile even though Icis couldn't see her. "It's Bella... We got your invitation today..." Her brow knit and she bit her bottom lip, listening, "oh yes... He's fine... Doing quite well, actually."

Alistair rolled his eyes.

"Well, we were a little surprised that we haven't heard from you and Cullen before this..." She let the words hang—her sentence unfinished.

Alistair wondered what possible excuse Icis could be giving. Certainly, this wasn't _her_ job. It was Cullen's problem. This whole conversation didn't seem fair.

"I see... Well, is he available?" said Bella. "Good, I'll wait."

Alistair stopped breathing as Bella pushed the phone up to his ear. His hands were shaking so violently he nearly dropped it upon transferring it to his left.

"Hello?" Cullen's voice was relaxed on the other end of the line. Alistair cringed.

"Hi...." he said lamely.

"How are you feeling, Al?" asked Cullen.

"Well, I'm a cripple... So not great," his attempted joke fell flat.

"I meant to call..." said Cullen, "we've just been so busy with the wedding and everything..."

Alistair tried to keep the corners of his mouth from turning down.

"I wondered what was happening with that," said Alistair. His voice was shaking.

"Oh yeah?" asked Cullen.

Alistair  _knew_  that response. It meant someone was listening and he didn't want to agree. Icis must have been within earshot.

"Well, if you aren't feeling up to it,  _we_  certainly won't feel offended if you can't make it," said Cullen.

Alistair couldn't remember how to talk. His voice died in his throat.

"We just wanted to make sure you knew that we wanted you there." Continued Cullen.

"Both of you?" asked Alistair incredulously.

"Of course..." said Cullen. He sounded like he was walking to another room. The background noises changed. "Al," he whispered, "I'm sorry...about all of this.... I had to send the invitation—Icis isn't dumb; she was pretty suspicious after the accident."

"And her feelings count more than mine, I suppose," said Alistair. He was surprised by his own candor, but he was so incensed he couldn't help it.

"Don't say that... I'm  _marrying_  her..." said Cullen, as if that explained it.

"Yeah, I got that from the invitation...." Alistair paused, "I need to go."

"Al?" Cullen asked suddenly, "you're not going  to  _tell_  anyone... About what happened, are you?"

Alistair tasted bile. "No, I'm not going to tell anyone..." He hung up.

 

* * *

 

"So?" asked Bella. Her mouth was pulled into a tense line, "what did he say??"

Alistair dropped his head, tears rolled onto his lap.

"He doesn't give a shit about me," he cried, "he just wanted to keep up appearances... That's why he invited me... He wanted to make sure I didn't _tell_  anyone..."

Bella rubbed his back and rested her head on his shoulder.

"He couldn't care less," said Alistair, looking up to meet Bella's gaze, "it was  _all_  me... This entire time. I made the whole thing up!" He was nearly shouting.

Bella wrapped her arms around his chest and squeezed him.

"I wish I could fix this for you..." she said tenderly.

Alistair looked up at her, stunned, "Bella, you're the most amazing person I've ever met... I have _never_ deserved you... Don't ever talk about fixing this for me. This is  _my_  mess... _You've_ done everything right."

Bella hugged him tight enough that his broken ribs protested.

"I have to try to help, Al," she said quietly, "I  _love_  you..."

Alistair's chest heaved. He had the most idyllic relationship possible, but it never stood a chance. Not with Cullen lurking around every bend. Alistair closed his eyes and stared into the blackness of his eyelids.

"Bella, I'm  _done_  with him," he said finally. He lifted his head until they were again eye to eye.

Bella nodded.  "That doesn't mean we can pretend like it never happened," she said slowly. "I'm going to make sure you get back on your feet... But I'm leaving once you're up and around."

Alistair nodded, his eyes still full of tears. It hurt to be rejected, even when it was the obvious outcome.

"Thank you," said Alistair. He squeezed her hand and blinked. "Thank you for everything."

 


	7. Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair tries to move on with his life. Cullen struggles with his decisions.
> 
> Edited 1/12/16 to better fit with the character of the work.

**Cullen - Immediately after getting off the phone with Alistair**

     “Everything okay?” asked Icis.

     “Yeah,” lied Cullen. He rubbed the back of his neck with his palm and exhaled in an unintentional sigh.

     Icis narrowed her eyes skeptically.

     “Well, kind of,” explained Cullen, “Alistair’s just having a really hard time with his recovery, that’s all.”

     “That makes sense,” said Icis. She wound an arm around Cullen’s waist and rested her head on his chest. “I mean, when has Alistair ever rested? He must be going out of his mind…” she said into the fabric of Cullen’s shirt.

     Cullen nodded and kissed the top of her head absently. “Maybe I should go see him,” he tried to sound nonchalant, but knew he failed when he felt her body become rigid against him.

     “Right _now_?” asked Icis. She pulled back until she could keep his features in focus and squinted incredulously.

     “Well,” said Cullen, backing up a step further, “He would come if I was hurt…”

     “Yeah,” Icis scoffed, “I bet he would…”

     Cullen scowled, “what does _that_ mean?”

     Icis threw her hands up in the air and walked into the kitchen, “Whatever… go see him… When you get back we can deal with the rest of this wedding stuff.”

     Cullen knew she was angry, but he never feared that she would leave him. She was committed to this—so was he… this was logical. As he began to throw clothes into a backpack, he remembered a conversation he’d had with Alistair months ago. They were discussing partnerships. Cullen’s measure of compatibility came down to simple events.

     “If you’re in a store with your wife and your kid sometime in the future and suddenly the kid is nowhere to be seen, will your partner be able to handle that situation or will she make it all about her?” asked Cullen rhetorically.

     “Yeah,” said Alistair, “I think that’s a great point. Bella is really good in those situations.”

     “Exactly,” said Cullen, “I say that to Icis all the time…”

* * *

 

     With the sun setting outside his window, he tried to hold onto that sentiment. Being in love was one thing, being in a partnership was another entirely. _So why was he packing?_ Cullen dropped the bag and went back into the kitchen where Icis was neurotically organizing their dishes—she always cleaned when she was upset.

     “Icis,” said Cullen, wrapping his arms around her waist, “on second thought… maybe I can go next month… once we’ve got more things handled.”

     Icis turned around and interlaced her fingers around his neck, “Thank you…”

* * *

 

**Alistair - 6 weeks later**

     “No, Bella,” said Alistair into the phone, “I’m _fine_ … you don’t need to come over…” he laughed. She was relentlessly helpful even living across town. “Okay, I’m going to go. Talk to you soon.”

     He hung up and inspected himself in the hall mirror. He’d gotten his cast off two days ago and although his leg had atrophied, he was so impressed with his standing reflection that he barely cared. His plan for the day was to walk down his own street—unaided.

     The weather had begun to turn in the last few weeks so he pulled his scarf tightly around his neck and buttoned his peacoat. As the door swung open, he stopped dead.

     “Hi,” said Cullen.

     The air emptied out of Alistair’s lungs and he felt as though he had been punched in the gut. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stared, gaping. This man was a _monster_ —he’d hurt him a million times and his visage plagued his nightmares, but he could think of nothing but kissing that new scar on his upper lip and tangling his fingers in his blonde curls. Alistair was frozen.

     “I’m sorry I didn’t call,” said Cullen. “I thought I might lose my nerve…. I also wasn’t sure if you’d tell me not to come.”

     Alistair still didn’t say anything.

     “I _wanted_ to come sooner,” continued Cullen, “I just didn’t know what to say… after that phone call…” he trailed off.

     Alistair crossed his arms protectively. He had replayed that conversation a hundred times in his mind. It was one of the few times he’d actually said what he wanted to—he hadn’t pretended he was fine. Maybe if he’d done that earlier, things would be different.

     “Well, you shouldn’t have come,” said Alistair coldly.

     Cullen took a tentative step forward and cocked his head to the left submissively. “Can I come in?” he asked. “Please…”

     Alistair knew it was a mistake, but he stepped back from the door. On his way inside, Cullen brushed against Alistair’s arm and Alistair smelled the oakmoss and elderflower that he still dreamed about. This was unraveling fast.

     “You seem to be getting around pretty well,” said Cullen, leaning against the kitchen island, “has Bella been making you exercise?”

     Alistair shifted uncomfortably, “We’re not together anymore…”

     Cullen looked genuinely surprised. “I’m sorry to hear that, Al.”

     Alistair rolled his eyes, “don’t be sorry for _that_.”

     Cullen looked down at his feet, “I’m sorry for a lot of things, Alistair…” he mumbled.

     “Why did you come here?” asked Alistair. He didn’t have time for this game anymore. He had lived the last near-decade of his life constantly wondering what Cullen thought—wondering if they were in synch. He wasn’t going to wonder anymore. “Are you in love with me or not?” His voice was deep and clear.

     Cullen looked taken aback, “I…” he paused.

     Alistair closed his eyes painfully and sighed, “Cullen, get out.”

     “Al, I…” stammered Cullen.

     “I can’t do this anymore!” shouted Alistair, “I have wasted years of my life on you. If there is anything I’ve learned through this whole ordeal,” he gestured wildly to his leg, “it’s that I can’t afford to waste any more time!”

     Cullen looked down at the floor again, but didn’t move.

     “Cullen!” yelled Alistair, “ _why_ are you doing this to me?! Is this fun for you?”

     “Alistair—” Cullen crossed to him and grabbed his left shoulder, “of course not…”

     Alistair thought about swatting his hand away, but he didn’t.

     “I love you,” said Cullen. “I’ve always loved you.” His other hand captured Alistair’s jaw as he pressed their lips together.

     Alistair thought he might cry. Instead, he channeled the rage and heartbreak and angst of finally being vindicated into his body. He grabbed desperately at Cullen’s clothes and pulled his own shirt off over his head. When their bodies touched, electricity passed between them.

    

* * *

 

     In the afterglow of their lovemaking, Alistair and Cullen turned onto their sides, slick and dirty, but _together_. Alistair wrapped an arm around Cullen’s waist and draped his leg over Cullen’s hips. He put his face close enough to Cullen’s that he couldn’t keep him in focus. Their noses touched—nuzzled.

     “I don’t want to fall asleep,” said Cullen.

     Alistair laughed, “why?”

     "Because I want to stay here with you,” said Cullen.

     It was a rare moment—the first moment they ever had with transparency.

     “Well, I will be here when you wake up,” said Alistair. “I’ll be the first thing you see…” He kissed Cullen gently on the nose and forehead, and eventually lips before closing his eyes and nestling into the space between Cullen’s neck and shoulder.

     “I love you,” said Alistair in a half-sleep.

     “I love you too,” said Cullen.

* * *

 

**The Next Morning**

     Before he opened his eyes, Alistair searched the bed with his fingertips. When he didn’t find a broad set of shoulders or tangled curls, he opened his eyes sharply. Cullen was nowhere to be seen. He rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows.

     “Cullen?” he called into the hallway. “Cullen? Where are you?”

     Something wasn’t right. His voice echoed through the house—a lone noise in a hall of silence.

     Alistair stood and hastily pulled on his shorts from the corner of the room. The morning air was chilled, but he could only feel the rising heat of fear in his gut.

     “Cullen?” he called again when he reached the empty kitchen.

     That’s when he saw it—a note in a familiar, small, sharp hand. He would have known that penmanship anywhere. Although he threw away every note they ever wrote, he would never be rid of the memories.

 

     “Alistair, I’m sorry. I had to leave and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it once you were awake. I was never good at disappointing you… I’m still getting married. I came here to tell you that—I guess we just got caught up along the way. Love is one thing, commitment is another. Do you remember when you said that you fly in the face of what I think relationships are like and I said maybe you could change my opinion? I think you did. You’ve taught me so much… and I’ll always be grateful. I just have to think of what’s best for everyone… goodbye, Al. Remember, you’re _powerful_ —you always were.”

 

     Alistair collapsed in a heap on the floor. He pulled his knees in protectively and crushed the note in his palm. His head was spinning. Last night their bodies had moved as one—”I love you” a whispered prayer in every sigh. How could Cullen possibly have left? How could he have opened his eyes, disentangled himself from the sheets, and dressed silently before sneaking out like a thief?

     Alistair stood, suddenly furious, and marched back toward his bedroom. He caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and remembered the way he looked when Cullen told him he was getting married. That day he looked _destroyed_. Today he looked like something else. Cullen was wrong about almost everything, but he did get one thing right. Alistair _was_ powerful and he wasn’t going to let this go.

 

 


	8. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen ineffectively deals with his feelings. Alistair, Isabela and Hawke make a plan.
> 
> Warning: there is some violence in this chapter that could be disturbing to some readers.

**Cullen - 1 Month Later**

     Cullen woke with a start and gasped—another nightmare. In the last month he had more dreams than in the last few years combined. They were about different things, but they were _all_ stressful and they were _all_ reminders of Boston. The whole city was ruined for him.

     Tonight, the dream was about Alistair after the car accident. It had been incredibly vivid. He dreamed about the hospital’s sterile white walls and the sound of Alistair’s heart monitor. He shivered, trying to break free of the tendrils of sleep. He squinted at the clock next to his bed; it read 4:30am. He had to be up in two hours—there was no reason to go back to sleep.

     Trying not to wake Icis, who was sleeping peacefully on her side next to him, he sneaked out of bed and walked to their bathroom. There was a pit in his stomach—this was what he did to Alistair barely a month ago. Only that was _excruciating_ —it haunted him. Some of his more traumatic dreams this month had been focused on Alistair’s sheets. They were smooth and clean and smelled faintly of lilac. In the wee hours of the morning, they looked softly beige, although they were actually white. When he pulled them back, Alistair had stirred. He turned from his side to his back and nuzzled into a soft down pillow. His face was illuminated by a beam of light from the rising sun outside. Looking at him there, Cullen almost changed his mind. It would have taken just a second for Alistair to open his eyes. If he had, Cullen thought things might have been different. He would have stayed.

 _But he didn’t stay._ That was reality. And Cullen was nothing if not a realist.

 

     Cullen stepped into the shower and let the water fall over his face and trail down his neck. As he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he wasn’t alone. That a pair of calloused hands and strong arms would somehow encircle him. But they didn’t. They wouldn’t. They _couldn’t_.

     Shaking his head, he grabbed the soap and tried to wash away his guilt. It was futile, he knew, but he didn’t know what else to do. He was getting married in two days.

* * *

 

**Alistair - Isabela and Hawke’s house, North Carolina**

     Isabela blinked at Alistair, disbelief apparent in her irises. “Have you lost your mind?”

     Hawke folded her arms against her chest and sighed.

     “Isabela,” said Alistair, still pacing. “I need to do something… I can’t just let it end—he loves me...I _know_ he does.”

     Isabela rolled her eyes, “But _this_? Al, this is a huge risk…”

     Hawke leaned against the edge of Isabela’s sofa and squinted at a spot on the floor placidly. “I think it will work…” she said finally.

     “Oh maker… not you too…” said Isabela.

     Alistair smiled, suddenly feeling boyish and brave. Isabela looked cross, but Alistair knew her resolve was weakening.

     “ _If_ we’re going to do this,” continued Hawke, “we need to talk logistics… this is tricky.”

     Alistair nodded, “I just need to get to him… face to face.” Alistair had imagined this theoretical conversation every day for a month. He would meet Cullen in the rectory of the chantry, or some similar location. It would be dark and deserted, but smell of old wood and ink. Cullen would be wearing a perfectly tailored suit, Alistair would marvel at the arrangement of his curls. And then.... they would speak.

     “Okay,” said Hawke, “A lot of this is going to fall on you, Isabela…” She smiled devilishly and interlaced their fingers. Isabela made a face and sighed again, but she seemed resigned. “You’re going to need to contact Icis,” Hawke continued, “tell her you have a surprise for Cullen—some sort of pre-wedding thing—and that you need him to meet you secretly somewhere.”

     “Where?” asked Isabela.

     “Maybe at the chantry?” she suggested. It was like she read Alistair’s mind.

     “When should I have him do this?” asked Isabela. “We’ve got two days to get this entire thing squared away… how close to we want to cut it, exactly?”

     Alistair bit his bottom lip, “Well, at least you live close to the wedding venue… it won’t seem like a tactic when you talk to Icis.”

     “Won’t it?” laughed Isabela, “I’m not usually the type to do things like this—usually I leave the manipulative plans to you two…” her tone was dark, but a hint of a smile pulled on the corners of her mouth. “Okay, okay, let’s just get this over with…” she groused, picking up her phone.

     “Hi, Icis,” she said tentatively. “oh, everything is going fine—" She paused, listening. Alistair wished he could hear Icis on the other end. “We’re excited too… it’s going to be a beautiful wedding.” Her eyes fluttered up to Alistair; guilt pulling on the corners of her mouth. “Sorry,” she mouthed silently. He shrugged.

     “Well,” continued Isabela, “I actually called to talk to _you_ … is Cullen nearby?” She paused for what was apparently a ‘no.’ “Good, I wanted to see if you could get him to the chantry after the rehearsal dinner tomorrow. I need to give him a gift—it’s a boys’ club thing, kind of stupid, but he’ll appreciate it.” Isabela looked back and forth between Hawke and Alistair. She looked like she might pass out. “You will?” she said finally, “that’s great. Maybe 9pm? Perfect, thanks Icis.” She hung up.

     “You did great,” said Hawke, smiling brightly.

     “That was the most stressed I’ve been in ages!” cried Isabela. She flopped down onto the couch and put her hands over her eyes.

     Alistair laughed and sat next to her, “you’re too funny.”

     “What are you going to say to him?” asked Hawke as she sat on Alistair’s other side.

     “I’m going to tell him I love him,” said Alistair.

     “Haven’t you already said that a bunch, though?” asked Hawke.

     Isabela shot her a sideways glance.

     “I’m just wondering!” she said defensively, “how is this going to be different?”

     Alistair rubbed his forehead with his palm, “because this will be the _last_ time—or the first of many.” He smiled to himself. If Cullen had to sneak out before dawn in order to force himself to do it, Alistair thought he had a pretty good chance. And if he was _wrong_ —he shuddered—he would find a way to cope. He _was_ powerful.

* * *

  


**9pm - Chantry - Cullen**

     “What are we doing here?” asked Cullen.

     Icis smiled at him devilishly, “it’s a surprise.”

     Cullen narrowed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck with his palm.

     Icis softened, “to be honest, I don’t know either... “

     Now Cullen felt a bit confused. “You brought me to the chantry late at night and you don’t know _why_?”  He turned toward her and captured her waist mid-step. Her momentum propelled her into his chest.

     “Isabela called…” she said quietly, “She wanted me to have you meet her there” she pointed to a small room off the back of the main hall. “Some boys’ club thing…” she laughed, “I’ll see you tomorrow—right back here.” Her smile was bright and easy.

     Icis craned her neck to kiss him, but Cullen didn’t kiss her back. The so-called 'boys’ club' was an invention of _Alistair’s_ design—Isabela and Cullen were just along for the ride. He felt suddenly hot, but kept his face neutral.

     “Okay, see you tomorrow,” he smiled and watched her leave.

     Once he was alone in the empty chantry, he studied its features. Tomorrow he would be getting married here—up until this point, he considered himself a relatively-uninvolved observer of this whole thing. _Now,_ he felt the situation’s gravity. He stared at the little door, unblinkingly. He hadn’t seen Isabela without Alistair in—well, _ever_ , that he knew of. It would be strange. For a half-second he let himself imagine that Alistair was on the other side of the door. He would be standing, lips slightly parted, a question in his deep brown eyes. Cullen would wrap his arms around Alistair’s waist and breathe into him.

     But he _wouldn’t_ be there—Cullen was sure of that. In the month since they were together in Boston, Cullen had picked up his phone to call dozens of times, but always put it back down. _He_ was the one who chose this.

     He fixed his face into a smile and approached the door. It swung open with a whine.

* * *

 

     “Hi,” said Alistair.

     Cullen thought he was dreaming. He wasn’t sure he could speak.

     Alistair was on him in a second, his hands combing through Cullen’s curls. Their mouths crashed—almost painfully. Alistair tasted like mint and smelled faintly of lilac—like the sheets he couldn’t forget. Cullen gasped for air.

     “I love you, _please_ don’t get married tomorrow,” said Alistair into Cullen’s lips.

     The words were too real. Cullen’s body recoiled. He put both hands flat on Alistair’s chest and pushed him back a little too hard. Surprise crossed Alistair’s face as he stumbled backward, losing his balance.

     “What are you doing here?” asked Cullen. His voice came out sharp and pointed.

     Alistair looked bewildered.

     It struck Cullen as odd—just a moment ago he _fantasized_ about this meeting. In truth, it was all he’d thought about for a month. Now, though, with Alistair standing three feet away, he felt cold. Alistair’s mint still hung on Cullen’s breath, but he _couldn’t_ close the gap between them; his legs were lead.

     Alistair took two steps forward and reached out for Cullen’s waist, “Please…” he said. “I just want to know _why_.”

      _Why?_ Why was a question he wasn’t prepared to answer. _Why?_ Because Icis was a smart choice—she ticked all the boxes on his partnership list. _Why?_ Because he already agreed to it; this wedding had taken on a life of its own. _Why?_ Because Alistair was unpredictable and wild and intimidating. _Why?_ Because Alistair might someday tire of him. _Why?_ Because he didn’t even know that he felt this way until it was _far_ too late.

     “Because I don’t love you,” he said. A lie—a blatant one, acidic on his tongue. But the only excuse that would work—the _only_ one Alistair couldn’t argue his way out of.

     Alistair breathed through his nose and rubbed a palm across his tearing eyes.

     "But in Boston..." He stumbled forward, closing the gap between them. "You said..."

     “Don’t, Alistair,” Cullen said coldly, raising a hand threateningly, “just **stop** —you’re _embarrassing_ yourself.” It was mean; it was _horrible_. The words didn’t even seem to be his own.

     Alistair looked up through thick, wet lashes. His pupils dilated in shock, but he didn’t stop—he reached out, winding a hand around Cullen’s side.

     In a flash of fury, Cullen grabbed Alistair’s collar and pushed him back— _hard_. His head connected with the wood paneled wall behind him with an audible crack. Still, Cullen didn’t let go. His hand tightened around Alistair’s throat.

     He watched the scene unfold from outside himself. Alistair’s face grew pale as he sputtered for breath. He clutched at Cullen’s hands, trying  desperately to free himself. A tinge of blue appeared at the margins of his lips. After what felt like an eternity, Alistair managed to kick Cullen’s legs out from under him. They both landed painfully on the floor, arms and legs intertwined.

     Alistair coughed and wheezed. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

     Cullen stared at the ceiling; stars danced in his vision. He wasn’t hurt—he was derealizing.

     Alistair coughed again, tears marking his cheeks, “...I’m _done_.” He stood shakily, still breathing erratically, and plodded toward the door.

     Cullen traced the outline of a ceiling tile with his eyes, unconsciously holding his breath. Alistair closed the door behind him and Cullen heard his footfalls get quieter and quieter in the distance. It wasn’t until he heard the outside door slam that he breathed.

     He was suddenly sobbing. Truly, _furiously,_ crying. Tears streamed down his cheeks and pooled on the dark red carpet on either side of his face. He rolled onto his side, tucking his knees to his chest. Sobs wracked through his body.

     “ _What have I done_?” he cried aloud.

 

 

 

 


	9. Interim: part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought this story was over... I really did. But something about these two has captivated me... and I kept wondering: what happened in those lost 10 years? Well, readers, it's time to find out. :) 
> 
> This chapter is sad--even for me. It makes me feel like my guts are going to spill out all over the floor, but remember that this story has a (sort of) happy ending! The theme is: Anyone can be a Cullen... even if you're naturally an Alistair.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addition of Anders in this chapter because I've been reading Anderstair and I'm dying... like... omg...

**Alistair**  

A month after walking out on Cullen, Alistair was _angry_ —angrier than he thought he would be. At first, he had been despondent. He wandered through his days in a numb haze of guilt and anguish. Next came crippling despair—he stopped taking care of himself. He stayed up all night binging on netflix and copious amounts of food. He ate an alarming number of pizzas. This, of course, left him bloated and lethargic and sadder than ever.

So he went back to the gym. He spent countless hours punishing himself with exercise. He tried to work so hard he couldn’t _think_ —hard enough to drown out his internal monologue of rumination. A few weeks later he was again lean, but wanting— _hollow_. He needed to be filled. More importantly, he needed to _forget_ Cullen; to _erase_ him. He'd need more than an adolescent tumble to do that.

So here he was—angry and out of safer options. When Anders sent him a text out of the blue, he responded.

 **Anders:** Hey, I bought that bag you recommended on instagram. It’s super convenient.

 **Alistair:** Awesome. How are you anyway? It’s been a long time.

It _had_ been long—he hadn’t seen Anders in a decade. He was always _there_ , in the back of his mind, in the receptacle for former lovers. A safe, reminiscent place that Alistair visited when he was feeling diminished. He hadn’t been there in a long time, though.

 **Anders:** I’m good—I’ve been doing some training. I see all your updates. You look _ridiculous_ , by the way.

Alistair was walking up a steep incline on a treadmill. He tried to suppress an aslant smirk.  

 **Alistair:** Thanks. I’ve been working hard…

 **Anders:** I can tell.

A few minutes passed. Alistair broke into a sprint. He had a series of disconnected, self-deprecating thoughts and imagined a scenario where he told Cullen about this newly ignited attention. “ _See_ Cullen?” he thought, “people _want_ me. Aren’t you sad you’ve missed out??!”

He shook his head, trying to focus on the burning in his legs instead of the pain spreading across his chest.

At the end of the interval, he picked up his phone and took a deep breath.

 **Alistair:** Hey, would you want to get together sometime?

The ellipsis that signaled “typing” appeared and disappeared three times while Alistair stared. His face was already flushed from the exertion, but he knew he was blushing.

 **Anders:** what are you doing this weekend?

Alistair licked his lips, sucking the bottom one into his mouth and chewing it. This whole thing seemed like a bad idea—like a mistake he might rue. But in some primeval, guttural, self-serving way he needed it.

 

* * *

 

That Friday night Alistair pulled up to a nondescript slow-food restaurant somewhere in southern New England. He had insisted that he travel to Anders instead of the other way around. He wasn’t sure _why_ , exactly. In some strange way, he thought of this as an _anonymous_ encounter, but without the added danger of involving an actual stranger.

The sun had already set by the time he pulled up on his emergency break and opened the door. The asphalt below his car was cracked and steeply slanted. He absently worried about the transmission. He closed the door slowly and appraised his reflection in the window. After two adjustments to his unruly mess of hair, he took a deep breath and clenched his jaw. He wanted to seem powerful—intimidating, even. _Why?_ Because that’s what Cullen had taken from him—his agency. The power that came from being in charge, from being desired, from playing hard to get. A twinge of guilt gurgled in his abdomen. He was doing this for all the wrong reasons—and what had Anders done to him? Nothing. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Alistair momentarily thought about getting back in the car and driving away, but then he saw him.

“Hey, Al,” smiled Anders. “If you didn’t use social media as a platform for shameless self-promotion I wouldn’t have recognized you.” He laughed in a way that Alistair realized he remembered.

“Well… no one says you _have to_ look,” joked Alistair. He walked toward the door and held it open for Anders to walk in behind him.

The inside of the small restaurant was warm and smelled like freshly roasted coffee beans. The walls were decorated with the usual hipster-fare—old records and tattered posters. Alistair felt right at home in this kind of environment.

“Hi,” said a woman wearing a black beanie. “Two?”

Alistair nodded. He barely noticed her beyond her flannel shirt and loosely laced combat boots, but he wanted to make it _seem_ like he did. He overtly looked her up and down. Anders swallowed hard and Alistair quelled a devious smile.

 

At the table, they talked easily—like no time had passed, but also with fuller vocabularies and more divergent experiences. Anders, it turned out, was an engineer now. Alistair thought that was dull, but he acted like he was impressed—he _was_ a little.  As the night stretched and the bill was paid, he started to feel twitchy. They both knew what this was, didn’t they?

“So…” began Alistair. He sipped from the edge of his coffee cup and leaned into the table for effect, “are you going to show me where you live?” He knew he was being forward, but he was holding just enough back with his nonchalance to stay in control.

Anders looked a bit bewildered. Alistair could tell he was working hard to keep his expression neutral.

“Yeah… just follow me,” said Anders, grabbing his keys and phone off the table. Alistair noticed that he left his phone face up during the entire dinner. It seemed guileless; he had nothing to hide. Alistair, by contrast, kept his stowed in his pocket and didn’t dare look at it. He’d inadvisably unblocked Cullen’s number a few weeks earlier and was waiting—idiotically—for some type of communication. He was fairly sure that was never going to happen. Nevertheless, if Cullen _had_ contacted him during this meal he wouldn’t have been able to let it sit there staring at him. His face would have cracked into a ridiculous grin, followed immediately by a miserable scowl, culminating in either uncontrollable sobbing or hysterical laughter.

“Al?” asked Anders. Alistair was too absorbed in his own thoughts to listen. This was horrendously egocentric of him.

“Sorry,” he smiled charmingly, “I was just thinking about something that happened at work today. I can never turn off thinking about my patients.” Now he was _bragging_ about his profession and playing the concerned martyr at the same time? _What a dick move._ The depth of his selfishness almost made him gag.

Anders smiled—one side of his mouth more curled than the other. He was _handsome_ —he’d give him that. “Well, for the rest of the night, you’re on vacation.” Anders leaned against the driver’s side door of his car.

Alistair saw the opening, but he wasn’t sure if he was ready to take it. It might be better to stretch it out a little. By _better_ , he meant for himself—for his own ego and ludicrously developed sense of self-preservation.

“I’ll be right behind you,” said Alistair, turning toward his own car. Anders looked a little confused. That was _perfect_.

The roads wound through forests and scattered foothills. Alistair used to enjoy this type of driving. Since the accident, however, every dusty embankment seemed like he might see himself there—nearly dying in a ravine. He shuddered and gripped the steering wheel with renewed strength. A prominent vein in his forearm rippled at the strain.

 

* * *

 

Outside the car, a soft rain had begun to fall—closer to mist than actual precipitation. He closed the door and locked it. Anders’ house was in the middle of nowhere—so rural that Alistair felt paradoxically claustrophobic. He wondered what appeal this kind of lifestyle had—until they got inside. The back half of the house was completely made of glass. Anders flipped a switch on the wall and lights illuminated the steep slope of a mountain range. It was breathtaking.

“This view is _amazing_ ,” said Alistair, gaping.

“Thanks,” quirked Anders. “Can I take that?” he gestured to Alistair’s coat.

Alistair pulled his arms out of the sleeves and handed Anders the garment. He let his hand linger when their palms met. It was calculated and stupid, but he was entrenched in the facade.

Anders disappeared around the corner and Alistair stumbled forward into the middle of the sunken living room. The whole house was an updated mid-century modern. The person who decorated it had impeccable style—he wondered if Anders had done it himself. It was the kind of thing he’d always _wanted_ to turn his own home into, but he was never neat enough to do it. He felt a pang—Cullen was neat: creepy-neat.

Alistair wiped a hand across his brow and sighed at the view.

“Do you want anything to drink?” asked Anders, now rushing to a bar on the far side of the open dining room area.

Alistair _needed_ a drink—a stiff one.

“...I have—” Anders cut himself off. “I thought I had more of that…” he mumbled to himself.

Alistair almost laughed. “—whatever you’re having.”

“Bourbon it is…” smiled Anders. He pulled two rocks glasses from a lower cabinet and grabbed a jigger pour.

Alistair grimaced. _So exacting_. Could he have picked a more similar type of neurotic person to Cullen?

A moment later, Anders was sitting next to him on the ultra-modern, but surprisingly comfortable, orange couch. Alistair had suddenly run out of words. He was lost in a memory of rearranging Cullen’s furniture in that first little apartment he lived in. Alistair had a dumb idea about using a bed for a couch. An ember of anguish was forming in his gut.

“So,” said Anders hesitantly, “I don’t mean to pry…” he adjusted himself slightly, edging closer to Alistair on the couch. “But I heard you were recently divorced?”

“It’s true,” said Alistair plainly. He wasn’t going to get into it, but Anders just sat there expectantly. “...we just grew apart, I guess. Bella’s a great person—I wish her all the best…” That was probably the first true thing he’d said all night.

“Well,” Anders put a hand on Alistair’s knee. “I’m really sorry anyway—that isn’t an _easy_ choice to make.”

Alistair nodded. He sure was right about _that_ —especially when the end result of all his boyish bravery had been ultimate rejection. Cullen _still_ got married; he _didn’t_ love him; it _actually_ happened.

“I’m glad you’re okay, though,” continued Anders. He still hadn’t moved his hand away. “You look like you’ve really landed on your feet.”

Alistair almost scoffed. He had done nothing but wallow—he might as well have landed in quicksand. But he knew he would _eventually_ dig his way out—this might be step one. He grabbed the back of Anders’ head and dragged him across the couch into a crushing kiss. He felt himself being a little too rough.

Anders whimpered into Alistair's mouth and clung to him around the ribs.

Without truly _experiencing_ what was happening, some clothing went missing. Alistair saw it fall in his periphery. He noticed Anders kept eying the door to the bedroom. Alistair was resistant to going in there for reasons he couldn’t decipher. Instead, he stood in front of Anders on the couch and unbuckled his belt—the gesture was _obvious_. For a split second, Alistair thought he’d gravely misread the situation, but Anders blinked and bit his lip, quickly undoing the button and fly.

Alistair was sure this would do it—how could he possibly think about Cullen with his cock in someone else’s mouth? An _adept_ mouth, at that. To his horror, he found himself looking out the glass walls of the house, completely detached from the sucking, twisting, roiling movements below his waist. He gripped the sides of Anders’ head and pushed carelessly, without _feeling_ any of it.

Suddenly, a lump welled in his throat. For a second that seemed to stretch into eternity, he realized that he was in danger of throwing up, passing out, and _crying_ all at once.   _What the fuck?_

The next second, he was inexplicably on the floor in the middle of the room—half dressed and suddenly sweating. His vision danced with spots.

Anders was hovering over him, “Al?”

Alistair heard him, but he couldn’t make his mouth work.

“I’m going to call 911, okay?” said Anders, grabbing his phone out of the pile of discarded clothing.

Alistair managed to raise his hand. He dropped it clumsily on Anders’ arm. “I’m okay…” he mumbled. His voice sounded far away.

“Al, you scared the shit out of me,” said Anders. His brow knit and he leaned closer to Alistair’s face in a gesture of concern.

Alistair just wanted him to back up. He wanted to get the hell out of this damn beautiful house and never see stupid Anders and his stupid concerned face ever again. Unfortunately, he couldn’t manage to sit up, let alone grab his scattered clothing and make a quick exit. He resigned to being coddled. Anders dragged Alistair into his bed and brought him tea.

All night, Anders was sweet. They talked about their lives, their friends and families. They reminisced about the past. At some point, he must have nodded off, but Alistair couldn’t place the exact moment.

In the morning, before he opened his eyes, he searched the bed with his fingertips. He found the edge of Anders’ shoulder, facing away from him and he could make out a tuft of blonde hair in the morning sun. For a second, his heart was in his throat. He hoped— _prayed_ —that he had dreamed the last few months. That everything in his life had worked out as he had hoped—but it _hadn’t_. As the events of the night before filtered in, he remembered the _nice_ blonde in bed next to him. Not _his_ blonde—no curls to be found, no soft amber eyes. No rubbing the back of his neck with his palm. _No_. That blonde was gone.


	10. Interim: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair wakes up after his horrible night. The story moves 3 years forward to 2019.

**The Next Morning**

**Alistair**

Alistair licked the front surface of his teeth warily. He hadn’t packed a toothbrush. He wasn’t planning to stay this long, originally. Last night being what it was, he was left with little choice, though. He’d slunk into the bathroom under the guise of avoiding morning breath, but had actually just needed to get away. His pants clung to him in an uncomfortable way. He didn’t like sleeping in clothes, but _everything_ about last night was something he didn’t like. He liked even less that he didn’t know where his shirt was.

 

Alistair growled at his reflection. A tube of toothpaste caught his eye on the vanity. It was rolled, fastidiously, from the bottom of the tube. He could have cried. The last time he stayed at Cullen’s house in Miami he’d brushed his teeth using Cullen’s toothpaste.

“Al…” whined Cullen a moment later, “Did you squeeze the tube from the _middle_?” He glared in feigned anger—a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Alistair donned a guilty smile and nodded.

Cullen just rolled his eyes—he knew him so well.

 

Anders’ bathroom was impeccably tidy. It could have felt sterile, but it managed not to. Alistair rifled through some cupboards until he found mouthwash. He swished, never losing eye contact with his reflection.

When he stumbled back into the bedroom, Anders was sitting up in bed. Alistair’s skin crawled. He felt like he was _never_ going to get out of here. He scanned the room for his shirt. He didn’t see it.

“Good morning,” said Anders sleepily. He raised his arms above his head to stretch.

“Hi,” said Alistair. The large bed was standing between him and the exit. He felt suffocated.

“Are you planning to sneak out on me?” Anders was wearing a wry smile.

Alistair knew he was being obvious, but he didn’t know how to stop. He decided on the truth. “I _was_.” He cleared his throat, “...this was sort of a disaster. I just thought I’d escape before you thought even less of me…” Resigned, he sat on the edge of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees.

Anders let his feet drop onto the floor and sat so close to him that their sides touched. Alistair cringed.

“ _Sort_ of a disaster,” quipped Anders, “I’ll give you that…”

Alistair looked up at him until they were face to face. “I’ve had a really shitty year,” he said honestly. He smiled despite himself.

“I surmised that.” Anders was still smiling. He seemed to be endlessly hopeful. “Why don’t you let me take you to breakfast and you can tell me all about it? I think you need someone to talk to more than you need _whatever_ you thought you needed last night.”

Alistair laughed—deeper and harder than he had in a month. “I’m not sure I have the strength…”

Anders put a hand on his cheek. “That’s why we’re going to eat something.”

Alistair leaned into Anders’ palm. It was soft and foreign, but it was _there_.

“Now…” said Anders, a fire igniting behind his eyes, “where is your shirt?” he laughed.

Alistair smirked, “I have no idea.”

“Okay,” Anders stood suddenly, tapping Alistair’s knee on his way. “We’ll find you something to wear… you’re a little broader than I am… but I’m sure there’s _something_.” He was already flicking on the light in his perfectly organized walk-in closet.

Alistair rolled his eyes—dry cleaning bags.

 

* * *

 

Throughout breakfast, Anders listened. He was intensely concerned with the injustice of the whole thing, which made Alistair feel validated.

Alistair tried to explain the nuances of the eight years leading up to this engagement mess. It was harder than he thought it would be. Without knowing Cullen—the way he cocked his head to the side when he was listening, his deeper left dimple, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm—it was hard to see how special he was.

“Wait,” Anders interrupted. “This guy left your bedside when you were unconscious, ran out on you in the middle of the night, and almost _strangled_ you, and you still think he’s special?!”

Alistair frowned. “I guess?” He grazed his stubble with his thumb and forefinger. “It’s really messy, isn’t it?”

“I’ll say,” said Anders. He pushed back from the table and sighed.

“It’s just—everything got to built up… for all those years...and he let me see a side of him that no one else on earth got to see. I _knew_ him,” sputtered Alistair. “...and then for those few minutes—when I thought he _loved_ me…” he trailed off, choked by his own words. The whole thing painted him as a victim—and a delusional one at that. It was embarrassing.

“I get it,” said Anders quickly. “...but Al,” he leaned back into the table. His expression was serious, “you can never go back to him. Hell, he _attacked_ you already—maker knows what he might do next time.”

Alistair felt like cold water had been poured down his collar. He realized he’d never been scared of Cullen. Even when he couldn’t breathe. He was _angry_ —surprised, certainly—but never scared. Somewhere, deep inside his gut he believed Cullen would never actually do something he couldn’t take back. What a _ridiculous_ thing to think. He shrunk into his realization and stared at the floor blankly.

“Seriously, Al,” Anders gripped his hand across the table, “I would never want anything to happen to you.”

Alistair refocused his vision and managed a small smile. “Thanks…”

 

* * *

 

**3 Years Later - September 2019**

“Al?” called Anders from the entryway, “are you home?” He sounded frustrated.

"I’m here,” Alistair rounded the corner wearing a hopeful smile. Whenever Anders got into one of his moods, Alistair found that being extra-happy pulled him out of it. “How was your day?”

“Fine…” Anders spoke through clenched teeth. “...until my boyfriend didn’t show up at the awards dinner…”

Alistair’s jaw dropped. He _knew_ he had forgotten something. “Anders, I am _so_ —” He went to put his arms around him, but was rebuffed.

“—I don’t want to hear it,” said Anders seriously. He turned and stomped into their bedroom.

Since their cohabitation, Alistair had steadily adjusted to living in such a clean environment. He knew where things went and that if he didn’t abide by the rules, life was harder. So he conformed. There were certainly perks to living with Anders. He was smart, for one thing--intellectually stimulating, for sure. He was also friendly—he got along well with Alistair’s friends and family. Isabela and Hawke especially liked him.  Most importantly, though, he was _there_. Alistair could depend on him to call when he left work, to be home when he said he would, and to always be available to listen to him.

“I just don’t understand _how_ you could have forgotten,” yelled Anders from the other room.

“I know,” Alistair leaned into the doorway and tried to look contrite. “This was really important for you and I screwed up…”

“Yes,” said Anders, slamming a drawer, “it _was…_ ” He pulled his shirt off roughly over his head and threw it into the hamper. “I realize I’m not getting anyone out of pain or preventing disc herniations or whatever it is you do… but _seriously_ , Al…”

“Anders,” said Alistair reproachfully, “I don’t think my job is more important than yours…” That wasn’t strictly accurate, but this wasn’t the time for hard truths.

Anders grumbled unintelligibly while unbuttoning his pants. He looked like he couldn’t decide if they were dirty or clean—he wasn’t sure if he should throw them in the hamper or hang them up. Alistair knew he shouldn’t laugh—he bit the inside of his cheek to suppress it.

“I will make this up to you,” said Alistair, “I promise.” He crossed to him and pulled him into a hug against his will. Anders struggled a little, but not hard. Alistair could tell he was softening.

“How?” whined Anders.

“How would you like me to?” Alistair kissed the edge of Anders’ ear and sucked the lobe into his mouth.

“Stop,” said Anders. Alistair could tell he didn’t mean it when he let his weight drop into Alistair’s chest.

“We could do anything you want to do this weekend…” offered Alistair. He was pushing Anders backward toward the bed with each punctuated word.

“Will you be able to manufacture another awards ceremony?” asked Anders in an imperious tone.

Alistair raised an eyebrow, “for you? I could try…” he smiled and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling Anders with him. They toppled into the bed horizontally and ended up nose to nose on their sides.

“I know _why_ you forgot, you know…” whispered Anders. He looked suddenly stricken.

“Why?” asked Alistair. He let his hand rest on Anders’ bare shoulder.

“It’s September—this is a bad month for you,” said Anders with a sigh.

Alistair rolled his eyes and pulled his hand back reflexively. “It has nothing to do with _that_.”

Anders raised his eyebrows, “and yet you knew _exactly_ what I was talking about…”

Alistair groaned and turned to face the ceiling. They had this stupid fight all the time. Anders was convinced that Alistair wasn’t over Cullen—still—and every year on the anniversary of that frightful night in the chantry, they fought it out.

“Alistair,” began Anders. He was tucked into Alistair’s side. His breathing was ragged. Alistair knew that meant he was about to say something serious. “Do you _love_ me?”

Alistair sat up, “of _course_ I love you…” he roared. It didn’t sound like it, though. It sounded like he tolerated him--like he was annoyed and miserable. Anders instinctively retracted his limbs. “I mean… I’m _sorry_ … it’s just—we’ve had this fight before and I’m _here_ , aren’t I?” Alistair laid back down and put his hand on Anders’ cheek.

“That isn’t the same, Al…” Anders pulled his mouth into a pursed line.

Alistair wondered if Anders might cry. That wouldn’t be typical for him, but there was a telltale glassiness that Alistair recognized—from his own years spent crying about a boy who would never really love him.

“Anders—” Alistair tried again, but Anders was already standing and walking toward the kitchen. “ _Sweetheart_ …” he used the endearment in a way that seemed more like an admonishment than he meant it to.

When Alistair rounded the corner, he found Anders throwing Alistair’s assorted shoes—which he had failed to put away—into a suitcase.

“ _What_ are you doing?” asked Alistair. He let his exasperation show, which he knew was a mistake. “All of this over _one_ dinner?” He ripped the bag out of Anders’ hand and forced him to make eye contact.

“You’re in love with a ghost,” said Anders plainly. “I can’t be with you when you’re still with him in your heart.”

“That’s ridiculous,” shouted Alistair, “we were never even together.”

“That doesn’t seem to matter…” said Anders. Alistair watched his face turn ashen. “I need you to leave.”

“Anders—please…” protested Alistair. He grabbed the sides of his face and kissed him. “I just had a bad day… I got caught up with things… I _forgot_ … but I _need_ you.”

Anders scoffed, casting his vision down at their feet.

Alistair regretted the _need_ part. He knew that didn’t sound good. He couldn’t think of a way to amend it that would be more convincing, though.

“Al…” Anders mumbled.

Alistair could tell his sentence had no true destination. It was just a disappointed beginning.

“Sweetheart,” Alistair tried again, “I’m _so_ sorry… I appreciate you so much—without you I’d be a complete mess. I don’t want to give this up without _trying_.”  He could say everything except what he knew Anders really wanted to hear. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t _in love_ with him. He _loved_ him—respected and admired him—but it wasn’t the exquisite pain of love. He could tell the difference. Unfortunately, the only person he’d ever felt that for was somewhere _else_ —lost in the ether, never to return.

“If you can look me in the eye and tell me you love me, you can stay,” said Anders. He was calling Alistair’s bluff. The way out of this predicament was _just one lie_ , but a lie that would make him _worse_ than Cullen ever was. He couldn’t do that to someone who had been so sweet--who had tried so hard.

Alistair bit his lip and looked down at the floor. “ _I’m sorry_ ,” he whispered. His voice caught in his throat.

Anders backed up to lean against the island counter. He rubbed his forehead with his free hand and exhaled sharply.

“I’m so, _so_ sorry,” repeated Alistair. He wanted to hold him—to make him feel better in some way. It was strange to be the person who _caused_ turmoil, instead of the other way around. He wondered if Cullen once felt like this. Like he _wanted_ to be able to make Alistair happy—but it was _impossible_. He just couldn’t muster it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... who wants to know what's going on with Cullen? I know I do... :)


	11. Interim: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair leaves Anders' house and seeks refuge with Isabela and Hawke.
> 
> Cullen deals with his feelings alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It takes a lot for me to see the Cullen point of view. I relate to Alistair so much more... but this is what I hope he thinks--it's the sensible way to feel when the love of your life slips through your fingers. :)
> 
> Send me some comments, if you'd like. :) I'd love to hear your thoughts.

**September 2019**

**Alistair**

 

“Hi, Isabela…” he paused, “I’m homeless.”

“You’re _homeless?_ ” she shouted into the phone. He could hear Hawke in the background saying, “ _what_?”

“Yeah…” he rubbed the back of his neck with his palm and immediately grimaced, dropping his arm like it was diseased. “Can I stay with you for a few days?”

“Of course, Al,” she answered.

“Okay, I’m on my way.”

 

Several hours later he pulled into Isabela’s driveway. As he parked, the porch light flickered to life. It was 3am, but she waited up for him. She was _the best_. When she saw him, she hopped off the porch and ran toward him with her arms outstretched.

“Are you okay?” she looked at him with concern he’d rarely seen.

He shrugged. “I guess?”

She bit her lip and ushered him inside.

“So… what happened?” she seated herself across from him in the cozy living room. Hawke settled in next to her, wrapped in a soft-looking robe. She was rubbing sleep out of her eyes on the plush couch.

Alistair loved Isabela’s house. It was so _lived in_. Unlike his— _Anders_ ’—house, it had an appropriate number of messes.

“I don’t love him,” said Alistair seriously.

Hawke gasped.  “I don’t understand…” she mustered, “You two seemed so _happy_.”

“We _were_ ,” said Alistair. He didn’t know how to explain it. He _should_ have loved him—he just _couldn’t._

“So…?” Hawke probed.

Isabela rolled her eyes, “please tell me this isn’t about _him_ …”

Alistair snapped his jaw shut and looked at the floor.

“Maker, Al…” she rubbed her tired eyes with her palms and sighed, “It’s been _years_ …”

“I know…” he muttered. “To be fair… it had been years before too… like… almost a decade.”

“Oh _no_ ,” said Hawke, putting the pieces together.

Alistair brushed a hand through his hair. “Izz--this doesn’t _change_ anything…” he exhaled audibly, “Nothing is going to happen on that front…” He kicked the carpet with his heel.

“Especially since Icis is pregnant…” mumbled Hawke, “- _-ouch_!” Isabela pinched her forearm.

“ _What_?” Alistair’s pulse raced.

“I’m sorry, Al…” groused Isabela. “I wasn’t going to bring it up…”

Alistair gripped the arm of the sofa. He felt like he was on a ship—suddenly rolling on turbulent waves. A child was so _final_.

“I think I need to go to bed…” he managed.

Isabela and Hawke both looked at him with thinly veiled concern.

“I’ll be okay,” he assured them, standing. “Just show me where I can lie down and I’m sure this will all seem less horrible tomorrow.” He tried to smile.

 

* * *

 

**Cullen**

 

All night, Cullen’s phone kept lighting up on the nightstand. He didn’t look—he _knew_ what they were: congratulatory notes and messages. Cullen needed absolute darkness in order to sleep in addition to absolute silence—tonight, the buzzing inside his head was loud enough to keep him awake all on its own.

At 4:30am, he gave up. He slid out from between the sheets and snuck noiselessly to his office. His fingers twitched nervously over the mouse as his computer whirred to life. He clicked on a folder labeled “Tax Information 2017.” Inside, he scrolled to another folder, “Miscellaneous healthcare costs,” and finally a document, “9/14.”

He scrolled to the end and began typing:

“Dear Alistair, It’s been 3 years. I’m not sure if you’re keeping track anymore. I keep trying _not_ to, but to be honest, it seems futile.”

He rubbed the back of his neck with his palm and scrolled absently through the pages. Over the years, he had amassed over 100,000 words in his cleverly hidden, mislabeled document. They were his private thoughts, his regrets, his feelings that only Alistair had ever given him the ability to experience.

“I’m having a baby, Al. I know, you’ll be _furious_ —you were always so grouchy about children. It’s funny, though, because you’re one of the most paternal people I know.”

He smiled, despite himself.

“I wonder, though, did you really hate children or did you hate the idea of _me_ having them without you?”

He almost erased that last sentence, but decided against it. In the beginning, he edited every word. Now, he tried not to. It was clear that he was never going to send this stupid document to Alistair—there was no reason to dilute its message.

“Icis is happy, of course. This was her plan,” he continued, “but I’m having a harder time with it than I thought I would, Al.”

He crushed his eyes in his palms and stared into the blackness of his eyelids for a full exhale.

“Al,” he began again, “I don’t know _how_ I’m going to get through this without you.”

A lump welled in his throat.

“All this time, _you_ were the one who let me see the big picture—you were the one who helped me _feel_. ...and now, I’m having a kid… a kid who is going to have _feelings_. How will I know what to do without you?”

His finger hovered over the backspace key.

“I almost erased that last part,” he typed, “but I’m not going to. You know why? Because it’s _true_. I wrote it for a _reason_. You know what else? _I miss you_.”

He sucked in a tiny burst of strangled breath through pursed lips.

“...and I don’t regret what happened—marrying Icis, this life—but I regret everything I did to you. I just wish I could talk to you—explain how much you mean to me…”

Cullen stared at the computer screen. His vision blurred over the blinking cursor. Then, as if possessed, he watched his hand pick up his phone. He had erased Alistair’s number years ago, but he knew the digits by heart. His pulse quickened when he heard ringing.

“We’re sorry, the person you dialed cannot be reached at this time. Please check the number and try your call again.”

Cullen deflated.

“Well, that’s it… I wonder how long it’s been this way. I wonder if you changed your number right away. I wouldn’t blame you—when I consider what I did—”

He stopped typing. He rarely let himself think about that. It seemed so foreign—like someone _else_ had done that.

“Cullen?” called Icis from the other room. The sun had just crested outside Cullen’s office window.

“Yeah?” he quickly saved the document and closed the mislabeled filing system. “Do you need something?”

“Just some water,” she called.

Cullen licked his lips. This was _his_ choice—now it was time to act like it.

 

* * *

 

Cullen got ready for work in a haze. In the bathroom, he stared at his reflection. He wasn’t sure he recognized all the lines on his face—were there more today than yesterday? There was one scar that he would never forget, though: the scar on his upper lip from the accident. For a while, he hated looking at it so much he grew a beard. It was like his cowardice was etched into his skin. He shook his head and splashed water onto his face. While his eyes were still closed, his phone began buzzing wildly on the counter. It spun in a lopsided circle while he searched blindly for a towel.

“Hello?” he mumbled, still blinking into a facecloth.

“Uh, hi?” said Isabela. “Is that you, Cullen?”

He dropped the towel and almost dropped the phone with it. He caught it between his ear and shoulder at the last second.

“Isabela?” he unintentionally whispered her name and conspicuously closed the bathroom door. “It’s me.”

“Good, I’m glad I caught you,” she said with a firm voice.

His throat felt tight.

“...It’s about Alistair…” she said quietly.

He knew that. Why else would she be calling?

“Are you still there?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah. I’m here,” he stammered. “Is he okay?”

“Kind of…” she hedged.

Cullen ran through fifty terrifying scenarios faster than he thought possible. He was already thinking of a cover story to tell Icis if he needed to travel _today_.

“He just broke up with his boyfriend…” she began.

Cullen stopped listening. _Boyfriend_? The word seemed like a weapon.

“...and that’s fine,” she added, “he needed to do that anyway… but he did it for a stupid reason,” she continued.

“What reason?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“C’mon, Cullen, don’t be like that…” she sounded like she was rolling her eyes. “He loves you—he always has.”

Cullen’s heart was beating fast. He eyed himself in the mirror—he looked younger.

“And so there’s something I need you to do…” said Isabela.

“Anything,” he interrupted.

She scoffed, “ _nothing._ ”

There was a long pause while Cullen tried to discern her meaning.

“What?” he finally asked.

“Do _nothing_ ,” she punctuated each word. “If he calls— _when_ he calls—don’t answer the phone.”

Cullen felt the weight of an anvil on his chest.

“He’s very fragile right now and he doesn’t need you fucking with his emotions again. It’s been three years, but that hasn’t been nearly long enough,” she concluded.

“...I understand,” he said quietly. There was nothing else to say. She was right.

“Good. Just so we’re clear—you won’t pick up his calls, respond to an email, an actual letter, or a damn singing telegram, all right?” Despite the seriousness of their conversation, there was a hint of a joke in her voice.

Cullen hummed agreement.

“Oh, and Cullen?” she added suddenly, “If he _shows up_ at your door like a lost puppy—you need to pretend you’re not home.”

“Maker, Isabela, _really_?” he exclaimed.

“Really.” She paused, “Just think how much worse he’d feel if you met him at the door and then sent him away than if you just happened to not to be home…”

Cullen swallowed, picturing the pitiful scene.

“Do you understand me?” asked Isabela softly.

“Yeah…” he managed. “Isabela? Is he really that much of a mess right now?” Cullen’s voice sounded disparaging, but he actually _hoped_ Alistair _was_ a mess—as much of a mess as he was himself.

Isabela scoffed, “No. But he’s realizing that he never really _grieved_ you. He just got into this new relationship and tried to forget—that’s not the same thing.”

Cullen wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“How are _you_?” asked Isabela suddenly. “It’s been a long time…”

“Oh, I’m okay,” he tried to sound upbeat. “I’m sure you saw—Icis is pregnant…” he let the words hang, wishing he didn’t say them.

“I heard.” She sucked in a breath like she was going to say more, but she didn’t.

“Well, I guess I should get going…” his voice trailed off. He really didn’t _want_ to get off the phone. He wanted to hear more about what was happening, but he didn’t know how to ask.

“Yeah, me too,” she said quickly. “I wish this call were under better circumstances… but it was nice to hear your voice anyway. Take care of yourself.”

Cullen hung up. He leaned on the sink and let his head hang between his shoulders. He couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs.

“Cullen?” called Icis. “Are you okay in there?”

“Yeah, Babe,” he panted.

“I’m leaving now, do you need anything?” she asked from the other side of the door.

“No, all set.”

When he heard the door shut and her car leave the driveway, his shoulders relaxed. He blinked at his reflection. An unfamiliar feeling was building in his gut. Pain and sorrow and guilt, all rolled into one. He couldn’t even name it.


	12. Interim: Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Anders are broken up, but they have some obligatory social functions to attend. It gets awkward fast... Alistair remembers how badly he treated Anders. Guilt follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to the point of this interim series where Alistair is going to make some personal evolutionary changes. It's time to be a better man before you-know-who shows up in Australia. :)

**Alistair**

**September 2019**

 

“You know they only invited us as the token gay friends, right?” Anders snarked.

Alistair huffed, but didn't say anything. If a suite full of girls wanted to believe he was completely non threatening, he could live with that.

“Anders,” chided Hawke from the back seat, “...Leliana _loves_ you, I'm sure she wanted you at the Bachelorette Party anyway.”

“I know… I'm just teasing—Alistair resists being _labeled_ …” said Anders knowingly.

Alistair peered at Anders and Hawke in the rear-view mirror. “Everyone wants to pigeonhole me by statistics…” he groused. “By that logic I’d be _mostly_ straight—I was married to Bella for five years.” Isabela, who was beside him, looked worried.

 

With less than a week since their breakup, this weekend was going to be stressful. Anders had agreed to hold off on telling everyone until they got through the beginning of fall. They had a lot of joint events to attend and neither of them wanted to detract from their importance with personal drama. Besides, it wasn't as if anything had _happened_. They just couldn’t make it work.

 

* * *

 

Inside the suite, the bride had already been presented with a custom wine glass and it was full to the brim with champagne. She shrieked when they came inside.

“The A-Team!” she laughed. In her drunken state, she apparently thought she was the first person to ever think of this nickname. Alistair cringed.

Anders stepped around Alistair and pulled her into a tight hug. “Congratulations! You're going to be _such_ a lovely bride.” He said into her hair.

“Thank you so much for coming,” hiccupped Leliana. She then turned to Alistair and leaned a palm on his chest. She was teetering on the edge of being too drunk to leave the hotel room. He steadied her with an arm under her shoulder and made a face at Anders.  It was a habit--to go to him for help in this kind of situation. He was _great_ at it.

“Lel—” he began, grabbing her under the other arm, “let's sit for a bit, _have some water_ , and then regroup before dinner, ok?” He smirked at Alistair over his shoulder.

Isabela and Hawke brought all their things into the room and started unpacking. As the other guests arrived, laughter spilled into the hallway. Alistair thought this might work out okay after all.

“We should head down in the next few minutes,” announced Hawke an hour later. “Our reservation is at 7:15.” Alistair looked at his watch nervously—although he was not a naturally neat person, he _was_ a prompt person. He hated being late.

Luckily, Anders had managed to get Leliana relatively sobered up—at least enough to walk downstairs to the restaurant without falling.

In the hallway, Anders pulled Alistair to the back of the group. He looked nervous.

“Leliana wanted to know if we were going to go on that couples’ trip next month…” he bit his lip. “I hadn’t remembered it until now…”

Alistair shifted uncomfortably.

Anders rolled his eyes at Alistair’s body language. “You _can_ just say you don’t want to go…” He sounded disappointed and a little angry. “I don’t really want to spend any more time with you than I have to _either_.” He closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose.

“It’s not that,” said Alistair. He instinctively put a hand on Anders’ arm.

Anders took a defensive step back.

“Sorry,” Alistair raised his palms in surrender. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s _fine_.” Anders exhaled. “I just didn’t know how weird this was going to be…”

“Hey!” called Hawke, “Are you coming?”

“Yeah, sorry…” mumbled Alistair and Anders in unison.

 

* * *

 

“So how did you two meet?” asked one of the assorted bridesmaids. Another one chimed in, “Oh! I bet it’s an _adorable_ story!”

Alistair looked at Anders out of the corner of his eye. He wondered how to answer this.

“We’ve known each other for ages…” answered Anders.

“So how long have you been _together_?” the first girl asked.

“About three years,” interjected Alistair. “We reconnected after I’d had a terrible year—Anders was very gracious…”

Anders pushed a hand through his hair, which was shorter now than Alistair was used to. “Maybe we should tell _that_ story instead—it’s much juicier…” he mumbled.

Alistair’s brow knit. He didn’t like talking about Cullen, even on a good day. Now that he knew about the impending baby, he felt Cullen’s name like a dagger.

“What happened?” asked the second girl, leaning into the table.

“I don’t know if this is really the right _forum_ ,” said Alistair slowly. He looked pointedly at Leliana at the other end of the table and added, “it’s supposed to be a day about _happy_ relationships…”

The first girl smiled brightly, “Then tell me, are _you guys_ planning to get married anytime soon?” she giggled excitedly.

Alistair watched Anders’ face fall. The marriage thing had been a point of contention between them for the last year.

 

* * *

 

**Anders’ House**

**October 2018**

Alistair dragged his fingers in absent circles across the surface of Anders’ skin. The night was chilly and their bedroom window was cracked open, but neither of them moved to close it. Alistair was content to pull the blankets tighter and wrap his arm around Anders’ shoulders. 

“Happy Anniversary,” said Alistair placidly. They were both still sweaty and breathing hard, but he managed the words.

Anders buried his forehead in Alistair’s right pectoral and kissed the skin absently. “It’s nice that we can say that…” he propped his chin up on a hand and hovered. “I mean, we got together in a strange way…”

Alistair laughed, “it doesn’t make it any less _happy_ of an anniversary.”

Anders smiled—gentle and sweet.

Alistair pushed the hair off his forehead and lingered on the angle of his jaw.

“Will you marry me?” asked Anders.

Alistair blinked. He thought he must have misheard him. “What?” he stammered.

Anders blushed, “will you?” he repeated.

Alistair knew he shouldn’t recoil, but he felt his body doing it anyway. “You know that I love you…” he began.

Anders’ face fell. He sat up and crossed his arms over his chest.

Alistair followed him. “Stop, stop,” he shushed. He let his palms rest on either side of Anders’ face. “You just caught me off guard…”

“We’ve been living together for over a year… together for two… what are we waiting for?” he asked rhetorically.

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ to marry you…” began Alistair. The look on Anders’ face told Alistair that was a bad beginning. He tried again, “...I mean, I’m not _going_ anywhere—we’re committed. Isn’t that enough?”

Anders bit his bottom lip. His eyes darted back and forth. Alistair knew that look didn’t mean anything good.

“Sweetheart…” Alistair scooted closer to him on the bed and gripped his hands between them. “I just don’t think I want to get married again—period. It has nothing to do with _you_.”

“And _you_ get to decide?” Anders quipped. His tone was acerbic, but Alistair could see that he was hurting. “ _Just you_ —by yourself?”

“Anders…” Alistair tried to pull him against his chest, but he struggled. “You’re right—it’s not fair to just say no. I’m just—I’m just not _ready_.” As he examined his words, he knew they were a lie. He’d _never_ be ready—not for _this_.

Anders looked at him appraisingly. His face was partially in shadow, but Alistair could make out a twitch of his upper lip—a smile that tinged with _hope_. Alistair cursed silently. He _loved_ that smile—but he hated what it meant. It meant he was a lying dirtbag. He let his head fall back onto the pillows and recoiled as Anders tucked himself into his side.

“Maybe next year…” mumbled Anders sleepily. “I’m still going to love you then, you know…”

 

Alistair stared into the darkness of their room long after Anders was asleep. He listened to the gentle sound of Anders breathing and tried to imagine wanting to marry him—he just _couldn’t_.

Eventually, when Anders rolled onto his own side of the bed, Alistair got up. He paced through the kitchen and poured himself a middle-of-the-night drink. He leaned on the edge of the counter while he shot back the tumbler of amber liquid.

He licked his lips. There was something he needed to do—something _stupid_ , but necessary. He left the tumbler on the countertop where it was sure to make a ring. Anders would be furious, but he couldn’t be interrupted—the words were forming in his mind faster than he could control.

He flung himself down on the modern orange couch where all this messiness began and propped a notebook against his folded knees.

“Dear Cullen,” he began. “I haven’t written to you in a long time. When Anders and I moved in together, I made myself a promise that I _wouldn’t_. I guess I’m breaking it tonight—I’m breaking a lot of things, actually.”

He pulled his glasses off and threw them on the coffee table. It was easier to look at close things without a pane of glass in between.

“He wants to _marry_ me, Cullen. And not just because we’ve been dating forever and it seems like the right thing to do.” He paused, thinking about Bella—he hoped she was okay. “No, it’s because he actually loves me and he wants to spend the rest of his life with me.”

The tip of his pen bled clots of ink across the page. He shook it and managed to make the ink flow properly by the next line.

“I felt like that once,” he exhaled in a shaky, uneven breath. “I would have stayed with you forever…”

His eyes were becoming glassy.

“And I would have been _good_ at it too,” he laughed bitterly through his tears. “You have no idea how sweet I can be when I’m trying.”

Alistair dropped his head onto the paper and let his tears fall. Rivers of black ink trailed toward the bottom of the page.

“This is ridiculous,” he said aloud. “We haven’t spoken in years—I haven’t seen you; I haven’t even _heard of_ you—and you can still reduce me to tears. How can love _possibly_ hurt this much?” He sobbed.

“Alistair?” called Anders. He was suddenly right behind him, blinking into the light of the living room.

Alistair flinched when Anders touched his shoulder.

“Hey,” Anders knelt next to him, looking suddenly worried, “what’s going on? Are you okay?”

Alistair couldn’t possibly tell him what he was crying about—it would mean hours of fighting, not to mention how much it would hurt him. He just let his head drop onto Anders’ shoulder and cried into the crook of his neck.

“Sweetheart,” whispered Anders, stroking the back of Alistair’s neck, “Whatever it is, we’ll work it out, okay?”

 

* * *

 

**Back at the Table**

**September 2019**

Alistair shuddered at the memory. Blinking, he realized he must have missed something because everyone was staring at him.

He coughed to fill the silence. “Married?” he asked stupidly.

Anders rolled his eyes, “Alistair isn’t really into marriage,” he leaned into the table and grimaced.

The girls scowled at Alistair, as if he’d kicked them.

“You forget, I was married once before,” Alistair retorted.

The girls looked at each other, wide-eyed. “Who was he?”

“ _She_ was my best friend once upon a time—she is a fabulous person; lives outside of Montreal now,” he answered.

They looked at him pityingly. He surmised that they thought he’d “come out” to her and ended the relationship on perfectly reasonable terms. While the terms weren’t exactly _hostile_ , they definitely weren’t _easy_. He’d loved someone else—if he was honest with himself, he still did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to @lilkjay for the beta read on this one. It's nice to have someone tell you when your timeline is wonky before you go public. :)


	13. Interim: Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair looks back on his breakup with Anders and realizes he needs a change.

**November 2019**

**Alistair**

Alistair's shirt clung to him in an uncomfortable way. He was running harder than he had in ages and sweating with matching ferocity. He could feel his pulse in his neck and a faint pain with each inhalation. He didn't even know how long he'd been out here. He was too far away from Isabella's to stop now. He would have to keep going until he made it back.

He'd been obsessively listening to the same song on repeat for the last thirty minutes at least. Part of the reason he lost track of time was a particular lyric that had him vexed.

[I don't believe a word you say, but I can't stop listening]

That pretty much summed up the Cullen situation, didn't it? Even three years later, he didn't know what was true. Cullen would say anything to anyone if it meant getting ahead—avoiding confrontation, staying safe. It was despicable, now that Alistair considered it.

What _hadn’t_ been despicable—what never even _neared_ despicable—was Anders. Anders was goodness incarnate. And what had Alistair done? He’d been horrible—completely insensitive and selfish.

Alistair stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. His feet came to a scratching, sliding hault. _He’d been Cullen_.

 

Alistair walked the rest of the way home. It wasn’t his style to go anywhere slowly or to quit a workout before its eventuation, but he felt like a weight was pressing down on him. _He_ was a Cullen. In the years since they stopped talking, Alistair had come to use Cullen’s name as a noun. “A Cullen” was a jerk—a person without feelings, a self-centered, self-important, self-righteous asshole. And now Alistair—a person who considered himself to be _so_ evolved—was a Cullen too.

“Hey Al,” said Isabela when he crossed the threshold.

“Hey,” he mumbled. He kicked his shoes off in the middle of the hallway and pulled his sweat-soaked shirt off over his head.

“Um…” she stared at the dirty sneakers. “I get that I’m not Anders-neat over here, but I do have _some_ standards.”

“Sorry…” he bent over mechanically and picked up the sneakers. He turned toward the hallway without another word.

Isabela caught his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

When he turned to meet her gaze, she looked concerned. He transiently wished he hadn’t taken his shirt off—his skin was slick and now she’d touched him. _Gross_.

Isabela continued staring when he didn’t say anything.

“Izz--I’m a Cullen,” he said miserably.

“ _What_ does that mean?” she asked. She crossed her arms over her chest and squinted up at him.

“I treated Anders really _really_ badly.” Alistair suddenly felt like he couldn’t stand up anymore. He let his knees give out and landed cross-legged in the middle of the floor.

Isabela followed him.

“—and not just during this breakup,” added Alistair. He anchored his elbow against a knee and rested his forehead on the palm. “I lied to him—a lot.”

“About what?” asked Isabela. She sounded genuinely interested—concerned. As if the plight of _a Cullen_ was worthy of interest.

“I lied every time I made a plan,” he explained. “He would say, ‘Al, do you think we could go to see my parents next summer?’ and I would say, ‘Yeah, let’s do that,’ but I always sort of _knew_ that we weren’t going to be together long enough to visit them. I had no intention of following through—they were just lies to keep—” He looked up at her, a realization dawning. “I almost said, ‘to keep him happy,’ but that isn’t what it was…”

“What was it, then?” asked Isabela.

“It was to keep him _placid_ —to make him docile. Because that was _easier_ for me,” said Alistair miserably.

Isabela clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth and inhaled a slow, labored breath. “Well, Al…” she paused, “I’m not going to tell you ‘ _it's okay_ ,’ because it’s not… but I understand where you’re coming from.”

“Do you?” asked Alistair. He felt a little raw and his words came out too loud—like an accusation.

Isabela scowled at him.

“Sorry…” he dropped his head.

Isabela put a hand on his knee and rubbed the thumb along the outline of his patella. They sat in silence for what Alistair considered an uncomfortable amount of time. He finally picked up his head and looked at Isabela’s face.

“Izz—I need a change,” he said seriously.

She smiled up and him and squeezed the knee she was still palming.

“I need to get out of here—start over,” he continued. “I’ve been talking about research for ages…I had one excuse after another for not doing it. Most recently, that Anders and I didn’t live near any major universities…” He felt his face pull into a smirk. “That’s a pretty stupid excuse, isn’t it?”

Isabela laughed.

 

* * *

 

**6 Months Later - April 2020**

“I’ll be okay,” said Alistair, laughing, “I promise…” he rolled his eyes, smiling into the phone.

“You better call me every day,” Isabella chided.

“I will.” He hung up.

As he walked up to the fifteen-foot glass doors of the university, Alistair felt butterflies in his stomach. He needed to find his office, but he didn’t necessarily want to be _shown_ there—he wanted to take some time to revisit these halls; to revisit his memories.

Up the first staircase, he passed a rehab room. He remembered sitting on low tables and trying to balance textbooks on his lap. Eventually he’d given up and splayed himself out on the floor. Once upon a time it was normal to do that. He laughed to himself.

At twenty past the hour, the classroom doors blew open on both sides of the hallway as students spilled into every free inch of space. He knew the expressions they wore—dark circles and tired eyes from hours of studying and too much testing. It seemed to him that the same students he graduated with were here, in new bodies. Everyone had a doppelganger—including _him_ : a sandy-haired boy with Cullen’s laugh almost ran into him around the corner. He shuddered.

“Sorry,” said the boy.

Alistair nodded acknowledgment.

 _Boy?_ This was the first time he’d considered the age difference. He still _felt_ 22, but he was easily ten years older than most of these students. He wondered what he seemed like to them. A strangely young professor or a strangely old student? Maybe he looked like a potential student’s _parent_ who wandered away from a tour. He smirked at his internal dialogue as he opened the faculty office door.

“Hi,” he said to the receptionist. “I’m Dr. Theirin… today’s my first day…” he explained.

“Alistair?” called a voice.

Alistair turned to see one of his former classmates—not one he particularly liked. “Hey Morrigan,” he said, extending his hand. “I didn’t know you were teaching on the academic side now.”

“Yeah,” she answered, “I moved over from clinical a couple years ago.”

Alistair watched the way her mouth moved as she talked—in his experience, everything she said was a lie. He smiled placidly, wondering what the real story was.

“I heard you were starting today,” she said.

“Yeah,” he brushed a hand through his hair, “I’m a little early, I just wanted to get settled into my office before my first lecture.”

“I’ll take him back there,” said Morrigan to the receptionist.

“Thanks,” he said.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, Alistair was noisily crunching a huge salad at his desk when a student poked his head in through the door. In his periphery, he saw that same sandy-haired boy-- _man_ , he mentally corrected—from his first day.

“Hi,” said the boy, “Is this a good time, Dr. Theirin?”

Alistair nodded and waved him in, swallowing the food that he’d forced into his mouth.

“I’m Ben,” he sat on the edge of a chair and leaned an elbow on Alistair’s desk.

“Of course, _Ben_ —you’re in 7th quarter?” asked Alistair.

Ben nodded, a blond curl fell onto his forehead.

“What can I do for you?” asked Alistair.

“Well…” he paused, “I’m hoping to get into a radiology residency and I’m wondering if you have any contacts in practice who have that specialty?”

“What made you think of asking _me_?” asked Alistair curiously.

“Oh,” Ben pushed a hand through his hair. The palm eventually found the back of his neck.

Alistair cringed.

“One of the other professors mentioned you have a really close friend… someone who is a radiologist now?” continued Ben.

“Yeah…” Alistair shifted uncomfortably, “I _used_ to…”

Ben looked up at him expectantly.

“He and I haven’t talked in a long time, though,” said Alistair. “Let me do some searching and I’ll let you know if I can find someone else.”

“Okay…” said Ben, standing, “Thanks, Doc.”

 

When Ben was gone, Alistair pulled his glasses off and let them rest on top of a disorderly stack of papers on the left edge of his desk. He took a steadying breath and turned to his computer.

“Dr. Cullen Rutherford,” he typed. “Miami, FL.”

He scrolled through the results—everything was a few years old. He sighed. “Well, Cullen, I think you finally did it…” he muttered aloud, “you got out of Miami…”

He closed the screen and put his glasses back on.

“Good for you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the 6th--and final--interim chapter we'll hear from Cullen. :)


	14. Interim: Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen gets a diagnosis and examines his life. It's time for a change.
> 
> Note: this is the last chapter I have planned for this story. I think I'm finally at the point where I can let these two go... but if anyone wants to talk head-canons and life and love and whatnot, feel free to send me a message. :)
> 
> Second Note: If you're new to this story and wondering why I'm saying the end is coming at chapter 14... it's because I wrote all the interim chapters last... after the main story was already over... for you, there is lots more to come. :)

**Cullen**

**June 2025**

 

The world seemed to be moving too fast while he was standing absolutely still. His field of vision was a swirling haze, perfectly matched to the white noise that filled his ears. He saw Icis crying—her cheeks were scarlet; tears spilled over her bottom lids and made rivers toward the edge of her jaw. The nephrologist was still talking, he was sure. His own mouth felt full of something that made it inoperable.

Icis’ lips parted and something like words spilled out across the sterile desk. They hit the doctor on the other side like daggers. Each one was chosen to insult his intelligence and invalidate this news. She couldn’t believe it. But _he_ could—he knew, beyond any doubt; he was doing to _die_.

 

When he pulled up to their house, he realized he couldn’t remember driving there. The entire trip had been mechanical—based on memory. He still hadn’t managed to say anything. He knew Icis was still talking. He heard her in the periphery—too far away to make out the words, but close enough that he couldn’t ignore her completely. He shrugged nonsensically. Inside their kitchen, his first three fingers found the back of his neck. He swirled them in absent circles over the scratchy transition between hair and skin. He could _feel_ that—it was _true_.

“Damn it, Cullen, aren’t you going to say _anything_?” she was yelling, but Cullen knew she wasn’t angry—she was just scared.

Cullen shrugged again. He kissed the top of her head absently as he passed her. He snuck as noiselessly as possible into his daughter’s room. She was a very good napper--she wasn’t a light sleeper like he was. At five, she was starting to look like him. Her face was a little sweeter, though—she had Icis’ chin.

“I love you, little one,” he whispered.

She rolled a little, closing her eyes tighter and stretched one tiny arm over her head.

Cullen’s eyes were suddenly wet.

 

* * *

 

**December 2025**

“Icis,” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes were closed, but he _knew_ the expression she was making. “I can’t do this anymore.”

She huffed furiously. He didn’t listen to the exact words, but they were the usual threats: she was disappointed in him; he’d ruined her life; he’d never get to see his daughter again.

He couldn’t say he blamed her—these last few months had been difficult.  They had spent thousands of dollars and months of time looking for more answers about his condition. Icis had tried to hold everything together when he stopped practicing, but she felt the strain financially _and_ emotionally. He wanted to apologize, but he wasn’t sure how.

“If you’re going to leave, do it tonight and don’t come back.” Icis’ voice was full of finality.

Cullen nodded. He wasn’t sure where he’d go, but he knew staying here wasn’t an option. He grabbed the bag he’d packed earlier and shouldered it with a shrug.

“Icis?” he turned at the door to face her, “we’re going to need to talk about this more, you know…” he let the words trail off, but he was definite. Being separated from his daughter wasn’t an option he’d accept. He wasn’t sure about much—but he was sure about that.

           

Outside, Cullen wasn’t sure where to go. He threw his bag into the backseat of his car and pushed the start button. The engine purred to life and he took off. Soon the roads weren’t recognizable. The further away from his house he got, the better he felt. His sickness seemed to _live_ there. He picked up his phone and dialed the only person removed enough from his regular life to help him out of this mess.

“Hello?” said Isabela on the other end.

Cullen almost lost his nerve.

“Uh… Hi?” she said again.

“Hi, Isabela,” he paused, “Don’t hang up… it’s Cullen.”

She didn’t say anything, but he could still hear her breathing.

“I need to see you,” he said seriously.

“We moved,” she said quietly.

“Oh…” Cullen waited.

“I’ll text you the new address,” she said finally. “See you tonight.”

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, Cullen pulled up to a neatly manicured brownstone. The tree-lined street was decorated with sidewalks on both sides and handsome iron fences. It didn’t necessarily look like a place Isabela would have chosen to live on her own. Cullen wondered what that meant. At the stoop, he pulled the brass knocker and let it fall three deliberate times.

She opened the door with a tentative smile, “Hi.”

He nodded slightly and walked past her into the expertly decorated living room.

“Nice place,” he said awkwardly.

“So… What are you doing here?” she asked.

Cullen’s hand found its usual perch behind his neck as he considered how to explain this. “Icis and I are finished—I've left her for good…”

Isabela nodded.

“...and I need…” He almost lost his nerve, “I need to get in touch with Al…”

Isabela exhaled sharply. “Can I get you some water?” She walked toward the kitchen and he followed her. She opened three cabinets before she founds her glasses. “Sorry… We just moved here and I can't remember where everything is yet…”

Cullen smiled, “it's a nice place… What made you want to move?”

Isabela blushed, “we did it to be near Al at the university--he's full time faculty now…”

Cullen's heart leapt.

“...but he's on sabbatical this term, actually. He's in Australia working with an interdisciplinary group on a new paper,” she explained.

“I see,” said Cullen, sipping the water.

“So… It would be kind of hard to get in touch with him right now…” Mumbled Isabella.

Cullen quirked an eyebrow at her, “he doesn't have a _phone_ in Australia?”

“He does… But it would be incredibly counterproductive _and_ in violation of the friend code to give you the number,” she smirked.

“I'm sick,” he said suddenly. He didn't mean for her to pity him, but it had that effect instantly. She reached across the island counter and touched his shoulder.

Cullen explained the whole situation from the beginning. He chronicled every mistake he'd made since before he got married, including the thousands of secret words he'd written to Alistair through the years. By the time he was done, her mouth was hanging open.

“Isabela, I _love_ him,” he said seriously. “And I have to tell him before it's too late.”

“Okay…” her eyes darted, “I have a plan.”

 

* * *

 

**Australia - January 2026**

Cullen stepped out of a taxi in front of a dauntingly large hotel in Sydney exactly 48 hours before he planned to manufacture a chance meeting with Alistair.

Throughout the check-in process, he felt numb.

“All right, Dr. Rutherford,” said a smartly dressed concierge, “We have you staying with us for two nights, departing on Sunday, January 10th?”

Cullen nodded absently.

“Fantastic,” he continued, “Here’s your room key—take these gold elevators up to the 15th floor and turn left, head all the way down to 1523.”

“Thanks,” said Cullen, grabbing the key from the desk.

On the way up to his room, Cullen realized how disoriented he was—it felt like the middle of the night even though the sun was directly overhead. At the door to room 1521, he paused. He knew his mind was probably playing tricks on him, but he would have _sworn_ he heard Alistair’s voice on the other side. A deep sarcastic laugh and emphatic explanatory sentence that perfectly reflected his usual cadence. _Usual_? As if he’d know what Alistair was like now—it had been _years_.

A chill ran up his spine and he kept walking. Inside, room 1523 was well appointed. It had a connecting door to 1521, he noticed. As he unpacked, he stayed uncharacteristically quiet. He didn’t turn on the TV or play any music. He was trying to listen—for even a hint of that musical laughter that haunted his dreams. He didn’t hear anything, though.

 

After an ill-advised midday nap, Cullen collected his things in preparation for a 3pm session. Its title was, “Rehabilitative mechanisms for the elite female athlete.” It wasn’t a topic he particularly cared about since his field was radiology, but it was the best of the options in this timeslot. On his way out the door, he caught his reflection. He rearranged his hair slightly, pushing and pulling a few wayward curls forward. This ordeal seemed to have aged him—his temples were graying. He wondered what Alistair looked like—probably young.

He stepped out into the hallway. As he passed room 1521, he walked slower, trying to hear any shred of that laugh. It was silent, though.

He descended the elevator and met Isabela downstairs.

“Hey Cullen,” said Isabela.

He felt relieved to see her. Something about being in a room of practicing physicians when he’d let his own practice go a few months earlier felt intimidating. It reminded him of all the things he’d _lost_.

“Hey…” he scanned their immediate vicinity. “Where is he?”

Isabela smiled. She looped her arm with Cullen’s and turned him toward the podium.

Cullen’s jaw grew slack.

“Hello everyone,” said Alistair. “Thank you so much for being here. I’m Dr. Theirin...”

Isabela led Cullen to an inconspicuous seat in the back of the huge lecture hall.

“Dr. Ballard couldn’t be here today—her flight was unexpectedly delayed—so you’re stuck with me,” joked Alistair. He brushed a hand through his hair and adjusted his glasses. “So… let’s talk rehab…”

Cullen was smiling stupidly when Isabela jabbed an elbow into his side.

“What?” he whispered.

“I didn’t believe you before,” she said into his ear.

He squinted at her.

“...you really do love him, don’t you?”


	15. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 10 Years after the altercation in the chantry, Alistair reflects on his life.
> 
> (2026)

**2026**

**Alistair**

     “Heading up?” he asked, sipping the last of his manhattan.

     “Yeah,” said Isabela, pushing away from the bar, “I’m exhausted.” She stood and leaned over to kiss the top of his head. “See you tomorrow!”

     Alistair watched her leave. Isabela and Alistair had decided long ago to explore the world through seminars. Each year they picked a new location and a fascinating topic. This year they were visiting Australia, which was fantastic, but they were both incredibly jetlagged. Alistair couldn’t seem to sleep at all and Isabela couldn’t sleep enough. For the last two days, he had spent the nights and wee hours of the morning sitting in the swanky lounge of their hotel watching people and thinking about his life.

     It was a good life—of that he was sure. In the years since Bella and he finally split up, they had managed to stay friends. They chatted on the phone once or twice a month and got together for coffee whenever they could. She always supported him; she was amazing. Isabela and Hawke eventually moved and Alistair suddenly had two confidants within walking distance. Their brownstone was just two blocks down from his. Most excitingly, Alistair finally achieved his dream of being a researcher and professor full time. He _lived_ for his lectures. Every time he stepped behind the podium with eighty faces looking back at him, he felt like he was at home. This year, he had the distinct privilege of presenting some of his original work. His session the next day had his stomach filled with anticipatory butterflies.

     “Sir?” said a server with a fabulous accent, “another drink for you.” She dropped the fresh manhattan on the bar in front of him, breaking his reverie.

     “Oh…” said Alistair, “Thanks, but I didn’t order this…” he trailed off, confused.

     She looked over her shoulder, “The gentleman at that table sent it over.”

     Alistair followed her gaze to a set of broad shoulders and grey-blonde curls. In the same moment his heart sank and sang.

     “Thanks,” he said absently. He picked up the drink and walked slowly to the table. He hadn’t yet seen Cullen’s face, but he would know him anywhere—in any country, in any situation, at any age.

     When he was within two feet, Cullen turned. His face was a bit different—wrinkles framed his eyes and his cheeks were a bit more hollow—but his eyes were exactly the same. They shined like liquid amber.

     Alistair stood awkwardly next to the opposing chair, “Thanks.” He tipped his head toward the drink.

     Cullen smiled, his left dimple slightly deeper than the right, “Please, sit,” he motioned to the chair.

     Alistair set his drink on the small table and seated himself gingerly. When he slid the chair in, their knees touched.

     “What are you doing here?” asked Alistair. “Are you presenting something?”

     “Just attending… I saw _your_ name on one of the sessions tomorrow,” said Cullen. “You’re presenting your paper?” he asked, interestedly.

     “Yeah,” said Alistair, running a hand through his hair, “This year has been a whirlwind. I’ve been really fortunate to work with such a great team.”

     Cullen leaned into the table and smiled. When he did, his face was illuminated by one of the pendant lights hanging in the otherwise dark bar. Alistair saw a hint of something in his expression—a look he didn’t know.

     “How are _you_?” asked Alistair.

     “I’m good…” he said, “we moved a few years ago… after Mia was born…” he looked suddenly strange, “That’s my daughter, she’s six.”

     Alistair’s eyes widened. He always expected that Cullen would have children, but hearing it felt substantial.

     “You named her after your sister?” asked Alistair. “That’s sweet…”

     Cullen pulled his phone out of his pocket and flipped to a video of a little blonde girl, climbing a mountain.  “This is last summer,” he said.

     “She looks just like you,” said Alistair.

     “Do you have any?” asked Cullen, suddenly. “Children… I mean…”

     “Oh!” said Alistair, surprised, “no… none for me.” He laughed. In the last decade he had been so fortunate--he had traveled the world, landed a dream job, explored his intellect and his emotions. He hadn’t even considered settling long enough to start a family.

     “So, Al?” began Cullen, suddenly. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and sipped a barely-touched drink. Alistair guessed that he still didn’t really drink, except to _seem like_ he was drinking.

     Alistair raised an eyebrow, waiting.

     “I need to tell you…” Cullen began, “...how sorry I am.”

     Alistair stayed quiet. During his personal evolution, he learned to be still.

     “I think of you _constantly_ ,” he continued.

     Alistair thought about Cullen too, but he suspected it was different.

     Cullen put his hand on Alistair’s knee under the table.

     Alistair shot him a sideways glance, “Still acting in secret?”

     Cullen pulled his hand away sheepishly and looked down, his face fully in shadow.

     “Cullen,” said Alistair, leaning his elbows on the table, “I understand, okay?”

     Cullen tilted his chin up until they were face to face.

     “You’re trapped,” he continued, “but _I’m_ not… and I’m not going back there.”

     Cullen drew in a breath as if to speak, but didn’t say anything.

     “I’m really glad we saw each other,” finished Alistair. He stood from the table and started to walk away, his drink untouched.

     Cullen grabbed his forearm and Alistair turned.

     “Al,” he said, standing without letting go, “Can we go somewhere?”

     Alistair bit his lip and started to shake his head.

     “Please,” said Cullen, interlacing their fingers. It was a gesture, Alistair knew—a sign that he wasn’t ashamed.

     “Okay… just a for a little while,” Alistair checked the time on his watch. It was nearly 1am, but he felt like it was the middle of the day.

 

* * *

 

     They walked the streets arm in arm for an hour without any discernible direction. Cullen asked a million intelligent questions about Alistair’s research and Alistair _tried_ to ask Cullen about his family, despite the pit in his stomach.

     “So do you have any other children?” asked Alistair as they paused on a street corner.

     Cullen looked both ways before tugging Alistair’s arm to signal crossing. “No,” he said, “we thought about it, but Mia’s enough… she’s a handful.”

     The way Cullen kept saying ‘we’ was a bit unnerving. Icis had a name. Did Cullen think he couldn’t handle hearing it?

     “And how is _Icis_ doing?” Alistair finally asked.

     Cullen squeezed Alistair’s hand reflexively, “She’s okay… she’s perfect, actually.”

     Alistair smirked into the darkness and hopped gingerly over a grate a few feet ahead, letting go of Cullen’s hand in the process, “So what are you doing _here_?” he asked.

     Cullen rubbed the back of his neck with his palm, thinking.

     Alistair laughed, “You still do that?!” He turned around and walked backwards a few steps ahead of Cullen, who was blushing.

     “Do _what_?” he asked.

     “That thing with your neck!” cackled Alistair.

     “How do you remember that?” asked Cullen, also laughing.

     “I remember everything,” teased Alistair, “I have a fantastic memory… and I _know_ you.”

     “Not anymore…” said Cullen sadly. His eyes were liquid.

     Alistair softened and let Cullen catch up to him. “I bet I know you better than you think,” he said. He put his arms on Cullen’s shoulders and looked him square in the eye, “For example, I can tell that you bit the inside of your lip two to three days ago…”

     Cullen’s eyes widened, “What?” he laughed, “How did you know that?”

     “It’s from the way you talk when that happens…” smiled Alistair, “see? I _know_ you.”

     Cullen smirked.

     They stood, motionless, on the deserted city streets—two old friends, two old lovers—not knowing _how_ to be what they were now.

     Cullen suddenly wrapped his arms around Alistair and pulled him into a rough hug. Alistair nearly resisted, but the smell of oakmoss and elderflower sent him back in time.

     “I’m sorry it took me this long to apologize,” said Cullen into the fabric of Alistair’s shirt. He wrapped a hand around the back of Alistair’s neck and cradled his head. “I’m so sorry, I’ll never be able to forgive myself for...any of it…”

     Alistair whispered, “ _I_ forgive you,” his lips slightly brushed Cullen’s ear.

     Cullen pulled back until their noses touched. “What do we do now?” he asked, smirking again.

     Alistair tried to be brave, but he couldn’t force a smile, “We don’t have much _time_ , do we?” he asked quietly. It was a test.

     Cullen’s smile faded, “I suppose not…”

     Alistair dropped his arms and stepped back. “I should have known better… I hoped for about two seconds…” he kicked the curb with his shoe. “Goodbye, Cullen.”

     Alistair didn’t wait for a response. He walked off into the night in the direction of his hotel, his hands plunged into his pockets. He internally screamed and cried, but his face didn’t show it—time had taught him temperance. It had also taught him that few things were more motivating than heartbreak. Maybe _this_ would be the thing that got him a nobel prize, he laughed darkly to himself.

     The sky suddenly opened up above him, cold rain pelted him and soaked through his shirt. He kept his head down and plowed through the freezing deluge toward the large lobby doors of the hotel. Just when they began to materialize in his vision—which was worse than ever—he heard someone call his name. He turned and squinted into the distance.

     “Alistair!” called Cullen. He was running hard to catch up and screaming like an insane person.

     “Cullen?” asked Alistair, a little bewildered.

     When he reached him, Cullen grabbed both sides of his face and kissed him. Alistair was so shocked, he didn’t pull away. When he opened his eyes, Cullen’s mouth was still an inch from his own.

     “Alistair,” said Cullen breathlessly, “I’m _dying_.”

     Alistair’s heart pounded—he could suddenly feel his pulse in his neck. He could hate Cullen forever, but he had to _live_. “What?” he stammered.

     “I’m dying…” said Cullen again, his voice soft. “I came here because… I couldn’t die without telling you…” he trailed off.

     Alistair dropped his head until their foreheads touched and brushed Cullen's cheek with his palm. Tears were forming in his eyes, blinding him.

     “I left Icis…” Cullen said, “ _finally_ …”

     Alistair’s breath hitched, “why?”

     “Because I had to…” cried Cullen. “I had to for me… but I also had to for _you_ …” He pulled back slightly and put both hands on Alistair’s waist. “I’m _here_ … I’m at your mercy. Please…stay with me? While we can…”

     Tears spilled over Alistair’s eyelids and mixed with the heavy rain that was falling all around them.

     “Please,” said Cullen, his face also tear worn, “I love you… please be with me.”

     Alistair sobbed and looked deep into Cullen’s eyes. He marveled at the episodic nature of his life. All this time and he was again sobbing in the rain. Ten years hadn’t changed him, after all.

     "What about your daughter?" asked Alistair. He was afraid to hope.

     "Meet her," Cullen nuzzled against Alistair's cheek. "She's going to love you almost as much as I do."

     He grabbed Cullen’s face and kissed him. Despite the rain, falling in freezing sheets, he had never felt so warm.

* * *

 


	16. Back to School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair tries to balance his beautifully-constructed life with his new relationship.

**Alistair**

His eyes hurt and a headache was forming across his brow... It was just another night in a long string of nights. He looked up, unfocused, and squinted at the clock across the room. He thought it said 2:30am, but upon placing his glasses across his nose it actually said 4:30.

"Maker..." he complained silently. These all-nighters were getting ridiculous. Next to him lay a stack of papers from his students—ungraded. "Shit...I'll have to ask my TA for help again."

The papers that had kept him up all night were spread out in his field of vision—lab results. They weren't good. In the last month, Cullen had taken a turn for the worse. Alistair couldn't necessarily figure out what had triggered the sudden decline. He adjusted his glasses and looked across the room at their bed where Cullen was sleeping. The gentle rise and fall of his chest was comforting. 

"I can feel you looking at me, you know," Cullen said suddenly.

Alistair laughed and took off his glasses, throwing them onto the papers. He rose from the desk and kneeled next to the bed. "I'm sorry I woke you..." he said softly.

"You didn't," said Cullen, turning onto his side to meet Alistair's gaze. "Not just _now_ , anyway… I heard you huffing over those lab results like two hours ago and haven't been able to sleep since. It was more a test than anything—to see how long you'd obsess over them." He attempted a meager laugh, but was suddenly coughing—wet and deep.

Alistair shuddered and handed him a cup of water from the bedside table.

Gaining his composure, Cullen sat up, swallowing. "Anyway," he continued, "I already looked at those... You're not going to see anything I didn't see—you’ve already admitted I was a better student than you were." He laughed, a smile tugging on the scar on his upper lip.

Alistair didn't _want_ to laugh, but he couldn't help it.

"Also, will you _lie down_?" laughed Cullen, "this is an insane time to be awake."

Alistair smirked and crawled into the space Cullen made at the edge of the bed. The sheets smelled faintly of lilac and elderflower—the best combination of scents Alistair could imagine.

"Okay," said Cullen, "there's no chance I can convince you to actually close your eyes, right?"

Alistair smiled and turned onto his side so they were face to face. "I am too awake..."

"Okay," answered Cullen as he wound an arm around Alistair's side, "tell me a story, then..."

"About what?" asked Alistair.

"Being young... ‘boyish and brave’... All that drabble," he laughed.

Alistair smiled, ‘boyish and brave’ was a sort of mantra between them now. It meant curious and bold...wise enough to know that no one has all the answers... but fresh, and—most of all—not afraid. In Alistair’s estimation, Cullen had been exceedingly brave these last few months.

"Tell me the one about the shoe again," laughed Cullen.

"I don't want to tell that one... That was the _weirdest_ night," said Alistair. "How about the time I did a single blind study on your calling habits?"

"What?" said Cullen curiously.

"Yeah..." smiled Alistair, "this one time...the summer before the car accident..." They both shuddered reflexively, "I told myself that I wasn't going to contact you for a full week."

Cullen laughed.

"Yeah, it was all fun and games until I realized you didn't notice," groused Alistair.

Cullen kissed his cheek and made a bashful face.

"So the whole week," continued Alistair, "I drove around in my car talking to you about things— _out loud_ —like a lunatic."

Cullen smiled, pink spreading across his cheeks.

"And I kept picking up my phone... but willing it back down." He cupped Cullen's cheek in his palm, "at the end of the week I finally gave up and called because I decided that always being the one to initiate conversations—while a bit embarrassing—was better than not talking at all."

Cullen pulled their bodies closer together and leaned into Alistair’s hips.

Alistair made a face and pulled back slightly.

“You know, my reproductive system hasn’t been affected by the kidney failure… those systems work independently, despite their proximity,” he narrowed his eyes in feigned disbelief, “ _Dr._ Theirin… _what_ must you be teaching your students?”

“Very funny,” laughed Alistair, relaxing back into Cullen. “I’m just scared…” he admitted.

“I know,” said Cullen quickly. Then he raised an eyebrow, “I was under the impression that _I_ was dying—not you.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. This shared dark humor had been a driving force of their relationship for nearly two decades.

“Shut up,” laughed Alistair, planting a kiss on Cullen’s smile.

Cullen breathed into him and slipped his tongue between Alistair’s lips. Alistair responded in kind and pushed a hand through Cullen’s hair.

Suddenly, a small, shrill cry rang out, “Daddy!!!!” screamed Mia from down the hall.

Alistair and Cullen sighed in unison.

“I’ll get her,” said Alistair.

“She asked for _me_ ,” said Cullen. He threw the covers back and stood, albeit shakily.

Crossing the room, he grabbed Alistair’s shirt off the dresser and put it on over his head. Alistair liked it when Cullen wore his clothes. It felt intimate. In fact, he liked sharing anything with Cullen—a sweater, a drink, a home, a life.

A moment later, Cullen appeared, carrying Mia, who, at six, was almost too big for that.

Alistair sat up and moved toward the margin of the bed so that Mia could sit on the covers between them.

“What happened?” he asked. Mia was not actively crying, but the evidence of tears was still clear on her face.

Cullen sat on Mia’s other side and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “She was having a nightmare…” he explained.

“What was it about?” asked Alistair, leaning down to look in the little girl’s face. Her resemblance to Cullen was uncanny—the same curly blonde hair, the same amber eyes.

“It was about mom…” said Mia.  Now that she was trying to talk, Alistair heard the signs of recently suppressed sobs. “She told me I couldn’t stay with you anymore and then dad was…” She looked, somewhat horrified, at Cullen, before turning back to Alistair, “ _He was dead_.”

Alistair bit his bottom lip. Cullen was convinced that Mia should be told what was happening to him—that it would be cruel to surprise her—but Alistair wasn’t so sure. Since their first discussion of the facts a few months ago, Mia was panicked.

Alistair leaned down to look into Mia’s liquid eyes, “I’m sorry you had that dream,” he said. “I can assure you that Icis—your mom—isn’t going to tell you anything like that… you are still going to be here every other week, like always…” he smiled gently, “...and your dad is fine, look at him.” He smiled up at Cullen, who made a sour face.

“Mia,” interrupted Cullen, “what Alistair means is that I’m going to be fine for a while… nothing will happen suddenly.”

Alistair rolled his eyes at Cullen. She was _six_ —she didn’t need to know the details.

Mia nodded and sank into Cullen’s side—sleep already beginning to claim her again.

Alistair thought about settling in next to them, but it seemed like an intrusion. Their arrangement was still new and a bit tenuous. He thought sourly that it would likely never have a chance to become old and established—not unless he did something about it.

Standing suddenly, he grabbed his papers off the desk and shoved them into his bag. He waved at Cullen, but noticed his eyes had already closed.

 

* * *

 

Outside, the air was chilly, even with the sun beginning to crest over the horizon. Alistair zipped up his jacket and put his hands in his pockets. He was in the habit of training early in the morning with another professor. His name was Rhys, but Alistair was reticent to call him that. Rhys had been a professor even when Alistair was a student and he had a commanding presence. Therefore, Alistair always called him Doc.

“Morning,” called Alistair, as he rounded the corner to the kettlebell studio. Doc was already perched on the edge of a foam roller, working on his IT bands.

Doc nodded, “What are you working on today?”

“I was planning to do have a hip-hinge day… deadlifts, swings, etc.” Alistair paused to sit on the floor across from Doc, “but I didn’t really sleep last night… _at all_ , actually,” he confessed.

Doc squinted at him.

Alistair still felt odd even being in the same _room_ with Doc. He was easily one of the most well-read and well-respected professors in the entire school. He ate, slept, and breathed research—and he was sort of _gorgeous_ … in a scholastic way. His hair, which was originally a rich brown had begun to gray at the temples and his smile was forever a sneer—filled with sarcasm and wit. Alistair was simultaneously flattered and terrified when Doc suggested they work out together three mornings a week.

“What kept you up?” asked Doc.

“Well…” Alistair rubbed his forehead, “I was going over these lab results… and I can’t make sense of the progression.”

Doc raised an eyebrow, “drop them on my desk later and I’ll take a look.”

“Yeah?” asked Alistair, “Thanks.”

“If it turns out to be difficult, though, you’re going to owe me,” said Doc. His mouth was curled into a sneer.

Alistair blushed.

 

* * *

 

By the time Alistair showered and changed, he was ready to go to bed. It was, unfortunately, only 7:30am. His first lecture was in thirty minutes. Sleepily, he remembered the ungraded papers in his bag and took a detour to his TA’s office.

Valya was a bright student, full of curiosity and imaginative ideas. That was the reason Alistair had chosen her—she wasn’t interested in doing things based on rules, only on what actually worked and made sense in the real world. This morning, he found her pouring an enormous cup of coffee and reading some hand-written notes.

“Morning, Dr. Theirin,” she called when she noticed him. “How are you?”

“Doing okay,” he said hesitantly. “Listen—I may have gotten sidetracked last night…” he began.

She smiled up at him through her eyelashes, “...and you didn’t grade those papers?” she predicted.

He made an embarrassed face, “You caught me… Can you help me out?” he asked hopefully.

She rolled her eyes affectionately, “of course… give me half the stack and hopefully we can get them done before your first class…”

The TA offices were located just down the hall from the faculty offices and didn’t have doors, only cubicle openings. Each professor had to pass the cubicles to get to the offices. Alistair waved to three or four professors as they passed, barely looking up from his papers.

In the corner of his eye, he caught Doc’s visage. He was moving fast, but caught himself mid step, “Al,” he said, “Did you drop those labs off yet?”

“Oh,” said Alistair, blushing again, “they’re here…”

As he fumbled through the millions of things in his bag, he noticed a strange look pass between Valya and Doc. He tried not to notice.

“Here you go,” he said, producing the appropriate papers.

Doc looked down at them suspiciously, “why is the name blacked out?”

Alistair wrung his hands. He knew Cullen didn’t want people knowing about his condition—not outsiders, anyway—so he redacted every medical record Cullen let him have.

“I’m thinking about using it in class if I can make sense of it,” he lied.

“Gotcha,” Doc winked and disappeared around the corner.

“You’re _friends_ with him?” asked Valya. Her voice suddenly sounded incredulous—not at all its usual tone.

“Yeah?” said Alistair. It came out high and pinched--like a question. He wasn’t really sure.

“Hmm…” huffed Valya.

Alistair’s interest was piqued, “what?”

Valya looked up from the papers and made intense eye contact. Alistair almost looked away instinctively.

“He’s a heartbreaker…” said Valya.

“Oh, I…” Alistair stammered, “It’s not like _that_ … I’m _with_...someone…” he explained, lamely.

Alistair wasn’t in the habit of sharing his personal life with any colleagues, but he wanted to tell Valya. That judgmental look she was giving him made his face burn. How could he explain it? He was living with the love of his life, who, unfortunately, was dying, and he needed Doc to interpret the most confusing set of lab results he’d ever seen—even if Doc _did_ expect something in return. _Did he?_ Alistair hadn’t considered that until now.

“You are... _with_ someone?” she asked, straightening in her chair.

“Yeah…” he said.

She looked at him expectantly, but when he didn’t elaborate, she turned back to the papers and uncapped her red pen.

“His name is Cullen,” he said finally.

She smiled up at him again, “We all wondered if you were gay,” she said easily.

He smiled, “that’s bi erasure…”

She looked suddenly embarrassed—her face flushed.

“I’m kidding… kind of… it _is_ bi erasure… but I’m not offended,” he laughed.

She breathed a sigh, obviously relieved, “How long have you been together?”

Alistair looked off into the distance, “well… that’s a matter of opinion,” he said slowly, “If you asked him, he’d say a few months. If you asked _me_ ,” he paused, smiling to himself, “I’d say since the day we met… almost 20 years ago.”

“Wow,” said Valya, smiling again, “that sounds like quite a story…”

“It is,” laughed Alistair, “maybe if I ever get out from under this grading backlog I’ll tell you.”


	17. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen deals with his feelings about his life, his disease, and his future. Alistair worries.

**Cullen**

            “Al?” he called down the hallway, “Is that you?”

            He heard the front door shut and Alistair swear as he apparently dropped something. There was the sound of rustling paper and a variety of crashing noises before he finally saw Alistair’s head appear around the corner.

            “Rough day?” asked Cullen, smirking from behind the kitchen island.

            Alistair smiled, “I’m _so_ tired; it hurts.”

            Cullen adjusted the knobs of the oven and rounded the island, finding Alistair’s waist with his hands. Alistair let his weight drop into him.

            “That’s why you should sleep at night…” chided Cullen, “...you know, like a normal person…” he laughed into Alistair’s ear and kissed his cheek.

            Alistair pulled back until they were eye to eye and wrapped his arms around Cullen’s neck.

            “You’re the _worst_ ,” said Alistair, still smiling.

            “I’ve heard that…” said Cullen, returning to the stove.

            “What are you doing?” asked Alistair, interestedly.

            “Cooking…” said Cullen.

            “Clearly…” Alistair smirked. “I’m more interested in _why_ …”

            “Because some of us can’t get up at 5am to go lift heavy things and punish ourselves on assault bikes and whatever else you get up to…” said Cullen absently, “...and I refuse to get fat… so I’m cooking.”

            Alistair laughed.

            In truth, Cullen was cooking because he was going out of his mind with boredom and there were only so many books to read and games to play. He thought about taking his motorcycle out for a spin, but he feared having a fainting episode while he was out. He didn’t want to call Alistair to rescue him.

            Alistair approached him from behind and wound his arms around Cullen’s waist. “Can I help you with something?” he asked.

            Cullen leaned into him, but shook his head, “I’m good… why don’t you go sleep for an hour?”

            Alistair rested his chin on Cullen’s shoulder. “I’m okay…” he yawned unintentionally.

            “Yeah,” laughed Cullen, “I can see that.”

            Alistair grinned, “Okay, maybe just an hour… will you be done with all this by then?” he gestured to the various pots and pans simmering on the stove.

            “I think so…” said Cullen thoughtfully, “as long as I don’t explode the house…”

            Alistair smiled and walked to the sofa on the other side of the great room, where he unceremoniously flopped down.

            “Where’s Mia?” he asked suddenly.

            “Oh, Icis came to get her this morning,” answered Cullen.

            “Why?” asked Alistair, sitting up again.

            Cullen laughed to himself, Alistair was like a child—getting him to nap was impossible.

            “She was really freaked out after that dream and she insisted on going ‘home’,” explained Cullen. He resented that word— _home_. He knew that the divorce was hard on Mia and that it was confusing for her to switch houses every week, but he wished that she considered _this_ her home too. He let his eyes lose focus over the white marble countertop, silently seething. A buzzing sound broke his stare. Alistair’s phone lay face up on the edge of the counter.

            “Why is Rhys calling you?” asked Cullen.

            His eyebrows knit slightly. He remembered Rhys from school; he never actually liked him very much, although he respected his intellectual prowess. Alistair, by contrast, was a devout follower of his. One year, after they graduated, Alistair admitted—quite publicly—that he had an intensely vivid fantasy about Rhys that included coffee, sex, and research papers. At the time, Cullen laughed, but now he didn’t think it was that funny.

            Alistair shot up from the couch and went to grab his phone.

            “Hi?” he said, walking down the hallway, “Thanks for getting back to me so quickly... Yeah… I saw that…” Alistair laughed.

            His next words were too muffled for Cullen to hear them. He craned his neck, trying to hear, but failed. Instead, he busied himself with chopping vegetables. He was half-way through a cucumber when he sliced his leading finger.

            “Shit,” he yelled, pulling the bloody finger toward his mouth.

            Alistair rounded the corner at breakneck speed, his eyes wide. “I need to call you back, Doc,” he said into the phone. He crossed to Cullen and looked at the pooling blood appraisingly. “Let me see that,” he said.

            Cullen rolled his eyes, “It’s fine…”

            “I just want to make sure it clots…” said Alistair.

            Cullen ripped his hand away, “Alistair, stop,” he said seriously.

            Alistair looked up at him, confused.

            “I’m fine, okay,” said Cullen, “I can check it myself…” His words came out harsh and dismissive, but he didn’t mean them that way. He was actually upset with himself—with the way his body had betrayed him. When he first started to have symptoms a year ago, he ran every test he could think of twice. Renal Failure just seemed amorphous and vague— _why_ were his kidneys suddenly failing?

            “I just want to take care of you,” said Alistair quietly, looking down at his feet.

            Cullen softened, “I know,” he closed his eyes painfully and rested his head in the space below Alistair’s clavicle. “I’m okay, though, Al,” he said seriously, “I have bad days and good days, but I’m mostly fine and I can evaluate my own clotting, okay?”

            Alistair kissed the top of Cullen’s head, “okay, can I _at least_ bandage it for you?”

            Cullen sighed and smiled, “fine…”

            Alistair ran down the hallway and returned with gauze, surgical tape, and a splint.

            “Really?” asked Cullen, his eyebrows raised.

            Alistair laughed, “just a joke…” he smiled devilishly and pulled a single band-aid from his back pocket.

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

            The next morning came too early. Alistair hit his alarm clock with his hand a little too hard and sent the clock spinning onto the carpet.

            “Careful, killer,” said Cullen sleepily, “it was a bad clock… but corporal punishment? I thought you were a liberal…” he laughed.

            Alistair turned over and pulled the comforter over their heads, shielding them from the intrusive beams of light at the margins of each window.

            “What would happen if you didn’t go in today?” asked Cullen, pulling Alistair across the sheets into his arms.

            “Well…” said Alistair, interlocking their legs, “there would be a sign on the door saying that my class was canceled…” he ran his hand down Cullen’s side. “And then my class would be a whole day behind…” he lingered on the patch of skin between Cullen’s oblique and thigh, “...and then the dean would call me and yell at me, because it’s only week 4 and we’re already behind to begin with.” He kissed Cullen deeply and blinked through thick lashes.

            “Sounds worth it,” said Cullen, pressing against him.

            “You keep doing that and I’m likely to agree with you…” Alistair said between kisses.

            “What time is it anyway?” asked Cullen, his hand firmly in the small of Alistair’s back.

            “4:45,” said Alistair.

            Cullen froze, “you’re going to the gym again today?”

            “Yeah…” said Alistair, kissing Cullen’s clavicle, “I go every Tuesday to meet Doc.”

            Cullen pulled the blanket down suddenly and sat up.

            “What?” asked Alistair, propping himself up on an elbow. He felt the heat between them escape into the room and was left slightly shivering. “We’re on a schedule,” he explained, “I could call and cancel that part if you want, I guess… but I would still have to leave in an hour, anyway.”

            Cullen stared into the slowly brightening room and sighed.

            Alistair sat up straighter and wrapped his arms around Cullen’s shoulders. “What is actually happening right now?”

            Cullen turned his head so Alistair could see the profile. “It’s nothing… I just need to get out of here… I’m going stir crazy.”

            Alistair marveled at the sharpness of Cullen’s jaw. In the ten years they didn’t see each other, Alistair dreamed about Cullen a lot—and most of those dreams had Cullen in profile. He was ridiculously handsome.

            “I’m sorry,” said Alistair. He crawled around Cullen and positioned himself between his knees. The blankets floated over him like a cape. “I could clear my weekend schedule… we could go somewhere… anywhere.”

            Cullen smiled and relaxed back onto the pillows.

            Alistair followed him, resting his torso gently on Cullen’s chest. That was when he felt it—Cullen was unreasonably warm.

            “Are you feeling all right?” he asked, worry escaping in his tympanic voice.

            “I think so,” said Cullen, already recoiling from Alistair. He hated to be prodded.

            “I know you hate this…” said Alistair, kissing Cullen’s forehead, “but just take your temperature for me and I’ll shut up.”

            Cullen rolled his eyes, “fine…”

            Alistair jumped out of bed, still naked and freezing. He grabbed the thermometer from the medicine cabinet above their sink. Unfortunately, he knew where every piece of medical equipment in the whole house was by heart—he had to be ready for anything.

            “Okay,” he said, crawling back under the comforter, “suck on this.”

            Cullen raised an eyebrow, “I could think of better things to suck on…”

            Alistair laughed, “open up, you jerk.”

            A moment later, the thermometer beeped and Alistair pulled it out. It read 101.2F.

            “What is it?” asked Cullen.

            “Just over 101…” said Alistair. “What should we do?”

            Cullen looked at him incredulously, “you sat right next to me in every class we ever took… you’re actually going to _do something_ about a fever that’s barely 101? Let my body handle it.”

            Alistair would have agreed with him under normal circumstances--fevers are the natural way of killing bacteria and viruses—but in Cullen’s situation, anything could make a difference.

            “You’re right,” he said quietly, “but if you start to feel worse, or it goes up, you need to call me at work, okay?”

            Cullen stood suddenly and started dressing.

            “Did you hear me?” asked Alistair, “what are you doing?”

            Cullen turned and looked at him viciously, “I’m going somewhere… out!”

            “Cullen—” called Alistair, desperately. Without dressing, he followed Cullen into the hallway and caught him around the waist. “Come back to bed… I’ll call Doc and tell him I can’t meet today… we could have another hour.”

            “No, go meet him. I want to be alone for a while,” said Cullen.

            Alistair let his arms drop and stood there, exposed and alone, watching Cullen leave. In some ways, it felt like he had been doing this for twenty years—watching Cullen run away from him. The whole thing was triggering and made his stomach hurt. He closed his eyes and breathed out pointedly through his nose before returning to their room to get dressed.

 

* * *

 

            Around the corner at the gym, Doc had beat him there again. Alistair hated to be late for things, but today it couldn’t be helped.

            “Did you not sleep again?” asked Doc. His eyes were slitted and appraising.

            “I did—sleep—just not enough to make up for yesterday, I guess,” answered Alistair.

            “So,” said Doc, handing Alistair a theraband, “I looked over those results you gave me--that was quite a mystery.”

            Alistair’s chest deflated unintentionally.

            “I said _was_. I figured it out. I think he has Alport Syndrome. We’d need some genetic testing to figure it out, but I’d be willing to bet on it. Do you know anything else about this case? Does the patient have any visual or auditory deterioration?” asked Doc.

            “I don’t know,” lied Alistair. Cullen had been complaining that it was harder to drive at night.

Doc attached a resistance band to the wall and leaned back into a stretch. “Well, either way, I _do_ know that that person needs a transplant.”

            Alistair perked up, “what?”

            “A transplant,” repeated Doc.

            “Really?” asked Alistair, “Everyone else I’ve talked to said a transplant wouldn’t help… that the failure is systemic… the new kidney would fail too.”

            “Yeah,” said Doc, imperiously, “of course it would—” he paused, “I mean, how old is this patient?”

            “40,” said Alistair.

            “Okay,” continued Doc, “so it took _40 years_ for both kidneys to fail… it’s going to take a long time for the new kidney to fail—even if it is Alport. The latest research I combed says 3-5 years at the _earliest_. Some subjects made it nearly 15. I’d call that worth it.” He was teaching, Alistair knew the voice he used for it.

            “You’re right,” said Alistair, “I can totally see that.” His whole body was trembling.

            “Of course I am,” said Doc, laughing. He clapped Alistair on the back and smiled.


	18. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen takes a ride and examines his thoughts.
> 
> 2236 words, SFW, except for mild implied sexuality.

**Cullen**

            The cool air filled his lungs and the woosh against his helmet cocooned him in pleasant deafness. There was nothing like it—the freedom of riding alone. He had been out all day with no specific destination. He glanced down at his watch—a Nixon with a solar-reflective coating that he was particularly fond of—and noticed it was nearly 5:30. He had been out for over 12 hours already.

            In an unfamiliar town, Cullen pulled up to a coffee shop called “The Burnt Page.” He pulled off his helmet and set it down against the bike before sauntering in. The inside was cozy with a crackling woodstove and books lining each wall in every genre imaginable.

            “Can I get you something?” asked the girl behind the counter. She was probably 23 at the oldest, but she smiled in a way that no one had looked at Cullen in ages.

            He smirked and cocked his head to the side, “Yeah… um…” he looked at the menu board appraisingly before making intense eye contact. “Something sweet?” he raised an eyebrow and leaned into the counter between them. “Surprise me…” He could feel the scar on his upper lip as he smiled.

            She blushed. “Okay, I’ve got just the thing.” She smiled up at him through dark lashes, “You can sit, I’ll come find you.”

            Cullen pushed a hand through his hair in a calculated gesture and turned to find a seat.

            The whole place smelled of ink and coffee grounds. When he finally settled into a high-backed green velvet chair, it was in the history section. In college, Cullen studied biology, but he always _wanted_ to study history. He read and watched everything he could find about historic battles and conquests. He was so enthusiastic, it had earned him the nickname “The Commander.” He picked up a dusty tome entitled,  Hanscom Field: The Lexington and Concord Story, but instantly put it down. Those two towns were too close to where Alistair grew up. Instead he settled on A Close Examination of The Pantheon. By the time the barista saw him, he looked deep in thought.

            “Here you go,” she said brightly, placing a small steaming cup on the coffee table in front of him. At this angle, her long dark hair fell across her face like a curtain, partially highlighting the slender branch of her throat and her prominent clavicles. Her waist was impossibly thin and gave way to wider hips. Below the edge of her apron, her legs were lean and lithe.

            “Thanks,” said Cullen, still taking inventory of her features. Most noticeable were her eyes—bright green and faintly glowing in the flickering firelight of the coffee shop. “What is it?” he asked.

            She sat on the edge of the chair opposing him. “It’s a secret—take a sip.”

            He obliged. The hot, frothing liquid tickled his tongue and felt warm all the way down his esophagus. His whole body tingled pleasantly.

            “Do you like it?” she asked.

            “It’s great,” said Cullen.

            “I’m Brooke,” she said, extending her hand.

            Cullen took it. It was soft—not a single discernible callous. “Cullen,” he said, never breaking eye contact.

            “So what are you doing here?” she asked curiously, sliding her chair closer to Cullen’s.

            Cullen raised an eyebrow, “what do you mean?”

            “Well,” she said, pushing her hair behind her shoulder, exposing that lovely expanse of skin between her neck and shoulder again. “This is a small town… and I would _remember_ you.”

            Cullen laughed low, “I’m a historian,” he lied, “I’m writing a book about this area.” he relaxed his posture and settled into his new character. “Did you know this building used to be a textile mill?” he asked.

            “I didn’t…” she said, looking around at the walls. “What did they produce?”

            Cullen’s eyes flickered up to the left corner of the room, where a bolt of fabric was hanging. “They made all types of fabric,” he pointed to the bolt, his other hand resting gently on Brooke’s upper back. “Especially gingham and wool…” he continued the lie, adding just enough detail to make it seem plausible.

            Brooke turned back to him, smiling. His hand was still firmly fixed around her shoulder.

            “Did you make that up?” she said, suddenly.

            Cullen drew his hand back, but kept his face neutral, “yes.” He smirked.

            Brooke laughed, “you’re the _worst_.”

            She touched his knee as she spoke, but Cullen was already recoiling. He’d heard those words before. He swallowed hard and crossed his legs away from her.

            She looked transiently confused and stood. “Well, if you need anything else, just let me know,” she said.

            Cullen watched her walk away over the top edge of his book and decided it was time to go. The sun had already set outside and he had a long ride home—if that’s where he should even go. He wasn’t so sure anymore.

            Sipping the last of his coffee, Cullen squared his jaw and walked toward the door.

            “Cullen?” called Brooke, coming around the counter. He paused, turning toward her. “If you’re in the area again… or even if you’re not… call me.” She slipped a small shred of paper into his front pocket--a bold move, to be sure.

            Cullen smirked again, “I will.”

 

* * *

 

            Two hours later Cullen pulled up to his own driveway. His legs were tired from gripping the bike, but he felt refreshed. He also felt affirmed—he’d been out all day without a single issue. As he slid his key into the lock, he fixed his face into a smile.

            “Where have you been?” asked Alistair—he looked flustered and stressed.

            “Out,” said Cullen flatly.

            “I’ve been calling you for hours,” said Alistair, more panicked than angry.

            “My phone died,” said Cullen as he kicked his boots off in the hallway and dropped his helmet next to them.

            Alistair folded his arms across his chest. His body language was defensive and Cullen rolled his eyes unintentionally.

            “Al,” said Cullen suddenly, “Can you just stop?”

            Alistair’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything.

            “I’m home. I’m fine. Just let it go,” said Cullen, brushing past him.

            Cullen stepped into the bathroom and appraised himself in the mirror. He somehow looked younger—fresher. There was something life affirming about flirting with someone half his age. He felt a small pang of guilt as he stared at his reflection, but was able to suppress it when he heard Alistair roaring around the corner.

            “Cullen,” began Alistair, “I’m not trying to harass you… But if you’d had an episode, or maker-forbid something _happened_ to you—”

            “Al!” Cullen interrupted, “Nothing happened! I’m fine!” he yelled. “I managed fine for the last decade _without you_!”

            Alistair looked a little hurt. His shoulders slumped and he lowered his eyes to the floor.

            Cullen softened, “Al…” he began again, “I didn’t mean to yell…” Cullen put his hand on Alistair’s cheek. “I just needed one day where I wasn’t sick—dying. Just _one day_ where I could be anonymous…”

            Alistair looked up and managed a hopeful smile.

            “Look at this.” Cullen began to laugh as he produced the scrap of paper from his pocket. “Some girl gave me her number—she was like 20.”

            Alistair squinted at the paper. Cullen knew he would think it was funny once he adjusted to the idea. The best thing about being with Alistair was the history—before they were ever lovers, they were best friends. They _plotted_ together.

            “Let me see that,” said Alistair.

            Cullen handed him the paper. The ‘B’ in Brooke was laughably large.

            “So are you going to call her?” asked Alistair flatly. His left eyebrow was raised, but he was beginning to smile.

            “I was thinking I’d wait until you left the room,” laughed Cullen, “but I suppose you could stand here silently, if you want. We could put her on speaker…”

            Alistair laughed and hit Cullen’s arm.

            “Do you remember that girl we convinced you’d had three divorces?” Alistair looked off into the distance remembering, “...you got embarrassed half way through the joke and tried to blame _me_ for the whole thing.”

            Cullen laughed, “I said we should come clean.”

            “Yeah, but you didn’t mean it,” said Alistair.

            “You’re right—I just needed someone braver to take the heat,” Cullen laughed again. In his estimation, Alistair had _always_ been brave.

            “You were _awful_ in those days,” laughed Alistair. Then he looked at the paper again, “I guess you still are…”

            Cullen suddenly pushed him out of the bathroom into their room. Alistair didn’t resist. When the backs of his knees hit the bed, he let himself fall. Cullen dropped over him and kissed him deeply, a growl escaping between breaths. Another benefit of the current arrangement was that he could be rough with Alistair without ever fearing that he’d hurt him. With anyone else, there was an element of caution. Alistair, by contrast, was self-regulating. If he felt overwhelmed, he would push back until they were on equal footing again.

            He was this way _emotionally_ too. Part of the reason they had been close for so long was that Alistair _refused_ to let them stop.  Every time Cullen withdrew, Alistair charged in and wouldn’t be ignored. Alistair was the poster boy for _Boyish and Brave_.

            “Where _are_ you?” asked Alistair suddenly.

            “What?” said Cullen. He rolled onto his right side and Alistair mirrored him. “I was just remembering some stuff.”

            “Tell me?” asked Alistair.

            “How you never let me get away with _anything_ ,” he said, grinning.

            Alistair blushed, “I’m bossy…” He kissed Cullen hard, “I think you like it.”

            Cullen kissed a line along Alistair’s jaw and stifled a laugh. “I mean, _seriously_ ,” he continued into Alistair’s skin, “I didn’t have to tell you about that number… _why did I_?”

            Alistair laughed and started unbuttoning Cullen’s shirt.

            Cullen knew why he told, though. It was the same reason he always told Alistair his secrets—they were kindred.

            “Do you remember when you said you could tell me anything?” asked Cullen, “that homecoming weekend…?”

            Alistair smiled, “You were wearing that shirt made of the weird wicking material and I was wearing that super tailored black suit…”

            “How do you remember those _details_? I’m lucky I remember that this happened at all…” laughed Cullen.

            Alistair shrugged.

            “Anyway,” continued Cullen, “You said you could trust me with anything and I said I could call you during a homicide in progress without fear of being judged.”

            Alistair nodded and arched down to kiss Cullen’s neck.

            “I still think that,” said Cullen.

            “Well, that’s good,” said Alistair, suddenly smirking, “because there’s this chick… gives her number to random men in coffee shops... I think her name is Brooke?... I may have to _kill_ her…”

            Cullen laughed and pulled Alistair over him by the collar. A dare passed between them— their lovemaking was a competitive sport. Cullen transiently imagined them on either side of a tennis court, serving and volleying over the net—glaring at each other with equal parts intensity and admiration.

* * *

 

            “I love you, you know,” said Alistair, panting. “ _Now_ especially.”

            They both laughed.

            Sweat glistened across Cullen’s chest and his hair was disheveled, but he felt _alive_. He and Alistair lay face up, staring at the ceiling.

            “About earlier,” he began, interlacing their fingers between them, “I just needed to talk to someone who doesn’t know about me…”

            “I know,” said Alistair. He rolled his head to the side and nuzzled into Cullen’s neck.

            Cullen continued to stare at the ceiling, “and sometimes I think that you’re more interested in _studying_ me than being with me.”

            Alistair curled into Cullen’s side. “I _want_ to study you, but not your kidneys…”

            Cullen snorted.

            Alistair laughed, his chest shaking against Cullen. “You know… I talked to Doc today…” began Alistair. His voice sounded a bit strained.

            “Do you mean Rhys?” asked Cullen. He thought it was ridiculous to call someone with their same academic distinction “Doc” all the time.

            “Yeah… _Rhys_ … whatever,” equivocated Alistair, “...he says you need a transplant.”

            Cullen turned suddenly and squinted into Alistair’s face. “How does _he_ know anything about this?”

            “I let him look at your latest lab results—” said Alistair, “don’t worry, I redacted them,” he added quickly. “He thinks you’re just a case study for my class.”

            “You _are_ studying me,” Cullen muttered bitterly.

            “Yeah, well,” continued Alistair, “He noticed a pattern with your lab results that I missed— _everyone_ did, actually—and he thinks you have Alport Syndrome. If that’s true it’s kind of a miracle that you went this long before your kidneys started to fail—it might be a mild case, actually.”

            Cullen opened and closed his mouth several times, but couldn’t seem to form words.

            “I’m going to get tested tomorrow,” said Alistair.

            Cullen sucked in air until his chest was full. “You _are_?” he asked.

            “Of course,” said Alistair. “I love you.”

            Cullen smiled, but he felt a pit in his stomach. He had spent such a long time getting used to the idea of his demise that _hoping_ felt like a failure. Worry coiled in his gut as Alistair pulled the covers over them and kissed his cheek. Late into the night Cullen lay awake, the sound of Alistair gently breathing next to him a constant reminder of what he might lose—or what he might be able to hold onto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am looking to hire someone to make some illustrations to go along with this story. If you know of anyone, send me a message! :)
> 
> I am also entertaining the idea of working some new characters into the story. If you have an OC you would like to see featured, leave me a note and explain your character and we'll talk about how to make it work. :)


	19. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair attends a university function and meets some VIPs. Cullen struggles with their relationship.
> 
> Note: this chapter features an OC of one of my readers. You can find her own fiction on here @lilkjay. If anyone else would like to have a character featured, there are approximately three more chapters left after this one, so there's still time. Just comment below and we'll chat! :)

 

**Alistair**

            “I can’t believe you talked me into this,” said Alistair. He eyed Valya’s reflection in the hallway mirror. She was rolling her eyes fervently.

            “This is an important part of getting funding!” she sighed.

            “I just hate all this academic posturing and begging for money…” groused Alistair. He turned to meet Valya’s gaze.

            “Just be yourself and I’m sure the university will be drowning in grant money,” laughed Valya.

            She held his tweed coat out and he obligingly put it on, again inspecting his reflection.

            “At least there’s an open bar…” said Alistair.

            Valya laughed. “Is your husband coming?” she asked.

            Alistair turned, a sneer and blush developing simultaneously, “we’re not married.”

            “Partner? Boyfriend?” Valya opened the door and fell into step next to Alistair in the long hallway. “ _Whatever_ … will he be here?”

            “No,” said Alistair curtly.

            He thought about explaining it more, but he wasn’t sure where to begin. Instead he stayed silent. Valya huffed.

            “Are you sure he’s a real person?” she was suddenly laughing, “Or did you invent him to make Doc jealous?”

            Alistair blushed. His nickname for Rhys was catching on.

            “He’s a _human_ …” said Alistair, brushing a hand through his hair. “He’s just busy…” He felt lame and tried to change the subject. “So, whom do I need to impress tonight?”

            Valya straightened and nodded, “Okay… you’ll need to talk to all the people doing the muscular dystrophy research and definitely the nerve entrapment group…” she scratched her head in a near-caricature of thinking. “Oh… and Dr. Lillian Collean… you’ll definitely have to say hi to her.”

            “Who’s Dr. Collean?” asked Alistair.

            “She’s up and coming at the National Institutes of Health… in the CAM division…” answered Valya, “You haven’t _heard_ of her?”

            Alistair squinted, trying to remember. “Was she one of the authors on that disc pathology piece in JMPT last month?”

            Valya nodded, “Yeah! Among other things… she’s one of the youngest to be published in that journal.”

            “Gotcha,” answered Alistair. “What does she want with me?”

            Valya suddenly blushed.

            “What?” asked Alistair.

            “It’s more of a personal favor…” said Valya sheepishly. “I’m hoping you would introduce us… I want to work on her team _so badly_.”

            Alistair smiled, “I didn’t realize you wanted to specialize in that field. Of course I’ll do that.” Alistair patted Valya’s back and smiled. “I’ll introduce myself and compliment her paper and then you pop out from behind me and I’ll say, ‘ _oh, by the way, have you met my amazingly talented TA?_ ’” Alistair laughed.

            “Thanks,” she beamed up at him.

            Around the corner, Alistair steadied himself before opening the heavy door to the reception hall. He fixed his face into a smile and pulled the door open, ready to meet his peers. He only wished that Cullen was there--he made him brave in these social situations.

 

* * *

 

            Ten years ago Cullen and Alistair were attending some similar function when Alistair decided they made a perfect power couple. They said hello in tandem, never touching, but standing so near they could feel each other’s movements. They smiled, dimples in line, laughs in common—their weight shifted toward each other in an unfulfilled need to connect.

            “You know everyone thinks we’re together, right?” said Alistair on the way home.

            “Yeah?” said Cullen, his tone noncommittal.

            “Yeah… you have a really hot husband,” said Alistair through a toothy grin.

            Cullen laughed, his hands caressing the steering wheel in a way that Alistair longed to be touched. The car was different, but Alistair could imagine he still smelled the camel colored leather of Cullen’s original jeep.

            “Well, tell them it works out really well for us to live this far apart,” joked Cullen. “It’s the only way to make a marriage work.”

            Alistair laughed and secretly cursed his cowardice.

  

* * *

 

            “Hi?” said a high voice.

            “Hello,” said Alistair, forcing his eyes to focus on the diminutive woman in front of him. He blinked into the low lighting of the reception hall and remembered how far he had come—Cullen _was_ his. He would be home with him in a matter of hours. There was no reason to ruminate.

            “I’m Dr. Theirin,” he smiled at the small, middle-aged researcher in front of him.

            Valya led him around the room expertly. She insisted that he shake every VIP’s hand. He was starting to shudder at the germs when he caught a glint of red hair across the crowded room.

            “Valya,” he whispered, leaning down, “ _who_ is that?”

            “That’s Dr. Collean!” she said excitedly.

            Alistair’s mouth was slightly open as he watched her work the crowd. She had gravity about her. It seemed as though people and objects were jumping out of the way to accommodate her path through the room. As she approached, he was so transfixed that he almost didn’t notice the broad shoulders and curly blonde hair of the man on her left.

            “Dr. Theirin,” said Lillian. She extended her right hand toward his.

            Alistair was surprised she knew his name. He smiled and extended his hand at the same moment he locked eyes with her companion—it was Cullen.

            Cullen didn’t speak, but he nodded in Alistair’s direction—like a _stranger_.

            In his confusion, Alistair decided to ignore Cullen. “Dr. Collean, it’s wonderful to meet you. I enjoyed your paper last month.”

            Valya winked at Alistair hopefully.

            “ _Please_ , call me Lillian.” Her dark blue eyes sparkled dangerously up at Alistair when their gaze met. There was something familiar about the way she was looking at him, but Alistair couldn’t place it. “Let me introduce you to Dr. Rutherford?” she turned and gestured to Cullen before winding her arm around Cullen’s waist.

            Alistair shuddered.

            “Dr. Rutherford?” said Alistair, forcing a smile. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here…”

            “Oh! You two know each other?” asked Valya, edging her way into the circle next to Lillian.

            “Small world, isn’t it?” said Lillian, smiling.

            “Dr. Theirin and I were in the same class,” answered Cullen, before Alistair could say anything.

_What was going on here?_

            “Yes…” said Alistair, edging closer to Cullen, “we know each other _very_ well, actually.”

            “Oh,” said Valya, smiling obliviously, “you’ll have to tell me some stories about Dr. Theirin in his school days!” she laughed politely.

            “Oh, he could tell you more than that,” said Alistair sarcastically. He glared at Cullen.

            Cullen smiled, but made a face like he had _no idea_ what Alistair was talking about. As if Alistair had _dreamed_ their entire relationship.

            “Dr. Collean—” began Valya.

            “—Lillian,” corrected Lillian.

            Valya blushed, “ _Lillian_ ,” she cleared her throat, “I’ve been hoping to talk to you about some of your work…” Valya gestured to a group of chairs on the far side of the room and Lillian followed her.

            Once they were out of earshot, Alistair grabbed Cullen’s sleeve and pulled him out into the hallway.

            “What is going on?” he asked.

            “I tried to call you!” Cullen whispered intensely. He looked both ways down the hallway, before pushing Alistair back against the wall of a small coat closet. He kissed him hard. Alistair’s knees buckled slightly, despite his confusion and burgeoning anger.

            Cullen pulled back, smiling dangerously. “Did you miss me?”

            Alistair smiled despite himself, “of course…” he put both palms on Cullen’s chest and fiddled with the lapels of his jacket. “But what are you _doing_?”

            “I’m blending in…” said Cullen. He looked surreptitiously down the hallway again before diving below Alistair’s collar to kiss the skin of his neck.

            “Blending in?” panted Alistair, “what does _that_ mean?”

            “I was invited to this too, you know,” said Cullen, biting the edge of Alistair’s ear. “But you didn’t mention it to me… so I called an old friend…”

            “How do you know Lillian?” asked Alistair without hesitation, “she can’t be _that_ old of a friend—is she even 30?”

            “Did you _hear_ me?” asked Cullen, forcing eye contact again, “I was _invited_ to be here… I’m publishing something…” he spoke quietly, looking down at his feet, “...and I _wanted_ to go to this with you,” he said more forcefully.

            Alistair inhaled sharply, “you _are_? ...you did?”

            Cullen smiled. He ran his hand along Alistair’s side, beneath his suit jacket.

            “So why did you pretend we barely knew each other?” asked Alistair, still _trying_ to feel cross.

            “For fun…” said Cullen devilishly. “play along and we'll laugh about whatever happens later?”

            Alistair smiled. “Okay…” he acquiesced. It was an old game—one they used to play as friends.

            Cullen smirked devilishly and ran off before Alistair could argue.

* * *

 

**Cullen**

            The irony of sneaking out of a closet was _not_ lost on Cullen. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t “out” in a traditional sense. Other than a few close friends, no one knew that Cullen and Alistair were together. It wasn’t that Cullen was ashamed, per se. He just didn’t necessarily know how to bring it up. _Some_ of his acquaintances knew that Icis and Cullen were at the tail end of a divorce, but these outer circle people didn’t tend to mention it. Going out of his way to explain that he was _already_ in a new relationship--and that it was with a man—seemed _odd_ and bordering on inappropriate.         

            Cullen re-entered the banquet hall and fixed his smile in place. Lillian’s gaze snapped up at him from across the room. He smiled as she rose to meet him.

            “So,” she said quietly, “what are we _actually_ doing here?” Her smile was wry and her eyes sparkled.

            Cullen choked back a laugh, “Can’t I just call a friend to go to a stuffy university event?”

            She narrowed her eyes, “I suppose you _could_ … but I don’t think you _did_.” She paused, her lips curling into a smile, “Spill it.”

            Cullen rubbed the back of his neck with his palm and cleared his throat.

            “I’m here with my…” he trailed off. He so rarely referred to Alistair in the third person that he wasn’t sure what to call him. “...my… _partner_.” The word felt awkward in his mouth and he instantly blushed.

            Lillian’s eyes widened fractionally, but she didn’t look like she was surprised.

            “...It’s all very new…” explained Cullen lamely.

            “ _How_ new?” asked Lillian.

            “A few months…” said Cullen. “But we live together…”

            “You _live_ together?” Lillian asked incredulously. Her voice was high.

            “Well…” Cullen looked down at his feet. “We have known each other since school… here, actually.” He gestured to the beautiful hall around them.

            “Maker,” said Lillian suddenly, “When I heard you were getting divorced, this is not what I expected.”

            “Me neither,” said Cullen. Even as he said the words, he knew they were a lie. Some part of him had always expected this. If he was going to break up his marriage, Alistair was the _only_ person for whom he would ever have done it.

            “Well,” said Lillian, “how serious is it?”

            Cullen was taken aback at the question. They loved each other certainly—that was the reason for the last decade of turmoil--but he wasn’t sure what the parameters were. He had been so swept up in the romance of it that they hadn’t discussed the rules. _Were there rules?_

            “Well,” Cullen cleared his throat, “he loves me…” It was only half the truth, but saying he loved Alistair seemed like a weakening admission.

            Lillian squinted at him, “but you’re not sure how _you_ feel?”

            _No, I’m crazy about him._

            “I suppose you could say that,” lied Cullen. He wondered _why_ he was doing this. It was like someone else had taken control of his body.

            “I see,” said Lillian. She put her hands on his hips and took a step closer to his chest.

            Cullen had forgotten the feeling of standing so close to someone so short. There was a foot discrepancy, at least. Although Icis was also small, he hadn’t stood close to her in years—their marriage was doomed from the start; it never had a chance.

            “Well, I’m not one to mince words, Cullen,” said Lillian, blinking up at him through her eyelashes, “I think you called me because you’re feeling trapped—you were never made to settle down.”

            Cullen knew why she was saying that. He had once prided himself on his independence. He got married because it seemed like the right thing to do—like a move for stability—and he always knew he would have children. But no one ever expected him to marry for love or to be faithful—his reputation was deeply ingrained with the people who had known him in his youth.

            “I guess you’re right,” said Cullen. He felt a pit in his stomach. He was afraid he was going to do something he’d rue. It had been a long time since he felt anticipatory regret. It was a feeling he could barely even explain, but it was triggered by the planning stage of a stupid decision. Right now, standing in the middle of a crowded banquet hall, he knew he was about to make a big mistake, but he felt powerless to change it.

            Lillian smiled and turned toward an approaching colleague.

            Cullen wrapped his arm around her waist and gripped her opposite hip before turning to face the rest of the room. Just as he looked up, he caught a glimpse of Alistair—leaving.

            “I’ll be right back,” he whispered into Lillian’s ear.

 

* * *

 

            Cullen entered the hallway just in time to see Alistair duck into the bathroom. Inside, he was splashing water on his face.

            “Maker,” complained Alistair, reaching for a hand towel, “This is the problem with being a same sex couple—I can’t even escape you in the men's room.” It was a good joke, but neither of them laughed.

“What is the _point_ of all this?” asked Alistair.

            Cullen shuffled, but didn’t speak.

            “I don’t understand you,” said Alistair. He was obviously angry. “If you wanted to be here with me why didn’t you just walk up to me and take my hand?” He leaned in to look into Cullen’s eyes. “I would have held it!” his voice rose louder, “ _I’m_ not scared— _I’m_ not ashamed…” He paused, “...but I guess _you_ are.”

            Cullen opened his mouth, about to argue, but he couldn’t find the words.

            “Cullen, _why_ are we even doing this?” he yelled. “It’s always so _hard_ with you! You make everything complicated and secretive and it just turns to shit—because you never give it a _chance_ to be simple!”

            “Al!” Cullen took an aggressive step forward. He felt anger burning in his chest. “ _You’re_ the one who kept your feelings a secret for all those years! _You’re_ the one who set that precedent!”

            Alistair scoffed, “Typical—blame everyone else for your mistakes.” His voice was cold. “You act like life _happens_ to you—like you have no _choices_!” He rubbed his forehead with his palm in frustration. “Well, let me tell you—you have them. You can _choose_ whatever you want! And I thought that was the whole point of finding me in Australia!”

            Cullen bit his bottom lip. “Al—everything seemed so different… it’s different when we’re alone…” he knew those words were a mistake even as they formed in his mouth.

            Alistair’s eyes widened. His face grew pale.

            “I already told you—I’m not hiding this anymore,” Alistair punctuated the words with labored breaths. “I have loved you for most of my life. I’m not going to pretend like I don’t because it’s more _convenient_ for you.”

            Cullen reached out to put a hand on Alistair’s shoulder.

            “Don’t touch me,” said Alistair, backing up into a sink.

            Cullen stepped forward again. He pressed against Alistair until they were eye to eye and chest to chest. These sparring matches were the defining moments in their lives. Cullen could recall each one like it was yesterday. He just wanted this one to end differently— _without_ tragedy.

            “I’m not embarrassed,” said Cullen. As he said the words, he felt their truth.

            “What is it, then?” asked Alistair. He was still scoffing.

            “You’re _smothering_ me,” said Cullen. To his horror, those words rang true too.

            Alistair’s expression changed—something like pain hollowed his cheeks and darkened his eyes.

            “It has nothing to do with sexuality—I could care less if people think I’m straight or gay or bi  or whatever,” continued Cullen angrily, “I _care_ that I can’t make decisions on my own—I’m just as trapped by you as I _ever_ was with Icis.” His breathing was shallow and he gritted his teeth between stanzas. “In fact, it might be _worse_ now. You think you know me _so_ well,” his voice was cruel and mocking, “so well that I’m not _allowed_ to change! How can I possibly figure out who I am now with you constantly telling me what I think or what I mean?”

            Alistair shuddered and shrank back, “I’m done, Cullen. I’m really, really done this time.” He tried to wriggle away from Cullen’s body, but his leg was pinned between Cullen’s thighs.

            “Fine,” said Cullen. He was about to back off when the door opened.

            “Al?” said Doc suspiciously, “everything okay in here?” He took a few tentative steps forward as Cullen backed away.

            “We’re fine,” said Alistair unconvincingly. Cullen noticed tears threatening to spill onto Alistair’s cheeks.

            Cullen exhaled sharply and slammed the door on his way back into the hall.

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

            “Hey…” said Rhys, “are you okay?” He crossed to Alistair in a few steps, but Alistair waved him off.

            “I’m fine…” he sighed, “just a little disagreement…”

            “Don’t I know that guy?” asked Rhys.

            Alistair smirked, “Yeah… that’s Cullen—he used to be in your class?”

            “All students basically look alike at this point,” laughed Rhys.

            Alistair let the laugh fade into an uncomfortable silence.

            “Al,” began Rhys again, “what is the deal with that guy?”

            Alistair exhaled audibly. He wasn’t really sure. “That’s my—” he cut himself short, “I think we just broke up.”

            Rhys looked at Alistair incredulously, “I think you could use a drink…You want to get out of here?” asked Rhys.

            Alistair smiled.

           


	20. Traveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Cullen spend a week apart. Alistair remembers why he loves Cullen in the first place.

**Fall 2015**

**Alistair**

Alistair glanced casually down at his phone and smiled.

“Are you driving yet?” asked a text from Cullen.

“Not yet. After work—probably 6:30,” answered Alistair.

“I can’t take all this stress,” replied Cullen.

“What??” typed Alistair, his brow furrowed.

“All this waiting,” Cullen said simply.

Alistair’s breath caught.

 

Two hours later his phone buzzed in his pocket again.

“Did you leave yet?” joked Cullen.

“You wish.” said Alistair.

“How about now?” quipped Cullen.

Alistair typed, “I am going to get to you as fast as I can…” but promptly erased it and put the phone back in his pocket. He shouldn’t be so overt. It wouldn’t translate well without his tone and cadence.

 

Alistair was quite sure that his heart was about to explode. It might jump right out of his chest or he might faint. Either way, he was going to fall apart when he saw Cullen. The whole summer had been leading him to this point. All the frustration, the angst, the crying—the crying was a bit embarrassing, now that he considered it—had been pushing him to do something. There was one problem, though. Cullen was going to be bringing Icis—this _fabled_ fiance about whom Alistair had already heard _too_ much. He had tried to get Cullen to leave her home. It was futile, though. During the course of the argument, Cullen said all these clever things about wanting Icis to meet Alistair and that Alistair didn’t need to be anyone but himself—Icis would _love_ him. There was no arguing with such a glowing recommendation.

Alistair stared at his reflection in the mirror of his office. He looked like a man with a secret—he _certainly_ was. Over the last few weeks, Alistair had rehearsed what he was going to say to Cullen a hundred times. It was always different, but it hinged on an expression that Alistair was quite proud of. It was something sort of boyish, with a daring backdrop. _Boyish and courageous?_ _brave?_ _Something like that_ … This afternoon’s rehearsal went like this:

“Cullen,” he blinked a few times for effect, “can we be honest tonight?”

Cullen would nod or something.

Alistair licked his lips at his reflection and bit the edge of the bottom one, “I don’t care about tomorrow—tomorrow we can go back to lying to ourselves and each other—but tonight I need to tell you how I feel.”

He breathed out, emptying his lungs audibly.

“I am _crazy_ about you. I have been for maker-knows how long…”

Cullen's eyes would grow wide and he’d try to look away, but Alistair wouldn’t let him.

“And it’s not even that I want to have sex with you… I mean, I _would_ , but.. it’s mostly that I want to crawl inside your mind and live there. When we’re together I feel what you feel, I can almost share your thoughts in real time. I’ve never had that with anyone and I don’t think you have either.”

Cullen would start to back up, but Alistair would put a palm around the back of his neck.

“I’m not trying to ruin your life,” Alistair continued into the mirror, “In fact, I think I can make it—if you let me…”

This was the scariest part—the part when Alistair would have to wait to see what Cullen said. He couldn’t predict this part. Would Cullen kiss him? Would he swat his hand away and leave? Would Cullen be angry? Would he laugh in Alistair’s face?

No matter what happened, Alistair knew he needed to say something, because scarier than every outcome was the outcome where Alistair wasn’t brave—the one where his cowardice won out. The outcome where he _died_ without ever telling Cullen. Where he attended his wedding and became godfather to his children. He couldn’t do it. _Not one more day._

Alistair cleared his throat at himself in the mirror just in time to feel his phone buzz again.

“What about now? In the car yet?” asked Cullen.

Alistair smiled.

 

 

* * *

 

**Fall 2026**

 

Alistair woke with a start. His hair was damp with sweat and his skin felt clammy. The tendrils of his dream clung to him like raindrops. The thought of Cullen back then made him shudder.

The phone was ringing on his bedside table.

“Hello?” he stammered while he fumbled to find his glasses.

“May I speak with Alistair Theirin?” asked a nasally voice on the other end of the line.

“This is he,” said Alistair.

“Sir, you were listed as the emergency contact for Cullen Rutherford—”

Alistair didn’t need her to continue, his heart was racing, “—what hospital?” he interrupted.

“Emerson Regional,” she answered.

“I’ll be right there,” he hung up.

He stood shakily and ran to the closet to find pants. In the last week his entire house had gone to shit without Cullen. Alistair was not neat by nature. He finally found a pair of jeans and pulled one of Cullen’s sweaters on over his head. It smelled like him.

In the car on the way to the hospital, Alistair had to force himself not to speed. He ran through every possible scenario in his mind. Had Cullen been in an accident? Had he had an event somewhere? Had his condition progressed? Alistair shuddered.

“Hi,” said Alistair at the check-in window, “I’m Alistair Theirin. I got a call about—”

“Come back this way, Ser,” said a nurse down the hall.

“Oh,” Alistair smiled, “thank you.”

The hallway was sterile and white. At 3:30am it was nearly deserted. The only sounds were monitors and shuffling feet. Alistair sighed, trying to steady himself.

“He’s in here,” said the nurse.

 

Alistair nodded and turned the corner. On the other side of the door, he nearly crashed into a seated woman with long red hair.

“Hello?” said Lillian, shock in her eyes.

Alistair nearly growled, “What are you doing here?”

“I brought him in,” answered Lillian. Not only did she stay seated in the only chair in the room, but she didn’t let go of Cullen’s hand, which was resting limply on his abdomen.

“Well,” said Alistair, trying to stay calm, “Thank you for doing that, but I can take it from here.” He gestured toward the door.

She glared up at him, still not moving. He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes, collecting his thoughts.

“Lillian,” he began again, “can you at least tell me what happened?”

“Only if you keep your voice down,” she said imperiously, “he’s just finally fallen asleep.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. She was treating him like he was a child.

“We were at my place, just _settling in_...”

Alistair winced at the implication.

“And he passed out in the bathroom, hit is head on the edge of the sink,” concluded Lillian. "Probably just dehydration."

“Have you seen his lab work?” asked Alistair. He felt panicked.

“No,” she squinted.

“What?!” yelled Alistair. “Have the doctors done a kidney function panel yet?”

“Alistair—” she rolled her eyes dismissively.

“He didn’t tell you… you have no idea…” Alistair sputtered rhetorically. He suddenly flung himself down at Cullen’s other side and gently shook his shoulders.

“Sweetheart?” he said tentatively. “Cullen?”

Cullen blinked.

Alistair smiled down at him and cupped his cheek in his hand, “I’m going to have them run some additional blood work, okay?”

Cullen tried to sit up—he looked like he was about to argue—but Alistair pushed him back gently.

Lillian looked horrified on the other side of Cullen’s bed.

“He’s in renal failure,” said Alistair. His voice sounded defeated. “Not end stage yet, but it’s heading there…”

Lillian gasped and finally stood from Cullen’s bedside. “Do you want to sit?” she asked. Alistair knew it was a gesture he shouldn’t ignore.

“Thank you,” he said gently. “I’m going to find someone to do a blood draw first. Just keep him still until I get back?”

Lillian nodded.

 

* * *

 

“Alistair?” said a small voice.

Alistair blinked into the sunlight and wiped a palm across his face. He had fallen asleep with his elbows on Cullen’s hospital bed and his fingers were numb as a result.

“Hi Mia,” he said groggily. Icis was behind her, looking worried.

Mia was holding a hardcover book and peeking over the edge of Cullen’s bed.

“Is Daddy okay?” she asked.

“He will be,” said Alistair, putting an arm around Mia’s tiny shoulders.

She scooted onto his lap and settled her chin on Cullen’s forearm.

“Do you want to get some sleep, Alistair?” asked Icis.

“No, I’m fine…” he answered. “You look like _you_ could use a break… want to leave Mia here with me?”

Icis made a face transiently, but eventually nodded. “I’ll be back in a few hours to take a turn, okay?”

Alistair nodded.

“Bye, Mom,” said Mia, waving.

“Did you bring that to read to him?” asked Alistair, gesturing to the big book on Mia’s lap.

Mia picked her head up and nodded. “I was going to ask _you_ to read it… I like the pictures.” She pushed the book into Alistair’s hands.

He eyed the cover skeptically. It was a history book about Westwood, Massachusetts. Inside, there were pictures of children in ratty early 1900s clothes and men and woman tilling farms. “Why did you pick this one?” asked Alistair.

“Daddy gave me this book… he said we were going to live there someday,” said Mia.

Alistair felt his face flush—Westwood was the town he always dreamed of living in. He hadn’t spoken with Cullen about it since they were young. _He remembered_ , thought Alistair.

“Okay, Mia,” said Alistair, turning to the first page, “You tell me what you think is going on in each picture and then I’ll read the section and we’ll see if you’re right.”

Mia smiled.

  

* * *

 

Two days later, Cullen was packed into the passenger seat of Alistair’s car. He looked thinner than usual and Alistair wondered if he was in pain. He hadn’t said much at the hospital.

He turned the ignition and felt the pleasant hum of his engine. One of Alistair’s many hobbies had been restoring this car from a pile of 1970s junk to an antique. Cullen had been impressed the first time he saw it and Alistair promised he’d teach him a few things… but he hadn’t been able to find the time. Alistair wondered if he ever would.

“Are you comfortable?” asked Alistair.

“I’m fine,” said Cullen briskly, “thanks.”

Alistair fiddled with the stereo system and finally found a song he liked. He didn’t play it loudly, though. He wanted to talk.

“I was really worried about you,” he said finally.

Cullen exhaled audibly, but didn’t say anything.

“...and I _missed_ you… before that,” added Alistair.

“Did you?” asked Cullen. He didn’t sound convinced.

“Of course I did,” said Alistair. “We had a fight—I didn’t suddenly go _insane_.” He attempted a meager laugh, which Cullen did not reciprocate. “Why are you angry at _me_ , anyway?” said Alistair, a little incensed, “ _I’m_ not the one who spent the week with someone else.”

“Just give it a rest, Al,” said Cullen quietly.

“Are you serious, right now!?” yelled Alistair, “I just spent two days at your bedside even though the last thing you said to me was that you basically hate my personality and being with me is worse than being with Icis.”

Cullen stayed quiet.

“And now _you’re_ angry?” Alistair was so frustrated he could feel his pulse in his neck. “Where are we even _going_?” he said suddenly, “I was going to bring you _home_ , but I don’t think that’s such a good idea anymore.”

“Listen,” said Cullen, “ _you’re_ the one who said it was over. It’s not my fault if you got your feelings hurt in the process.” His tone was mocking.

Alistair thought he might cry. He didn’t want to give Cullen the satisfaction.

“I just want to get some things from the house,” said Cullen, “then I’ll leave.”

Alistair clenched his jaw in a desperate attempt to stave off sobbing. Then he remembered the book. _A place we’ll someday live_ , said Mia.

 

In the driveway, he cut the ignition, but did not open the door. “I don’t want to fight, Cullen,” he said.

Cullen rolled his eyes. He looked exasperated.

“ _Why_ did you track me down?” asked Alistair.

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck with his palm and closed his eyes.

“ _Why_ go through all of that just to push me away?” asked Alistair.

Cullen growled, “Alistair! Just stop doing this!” he yelled, “this is exactly what I’m talking about. It’s been a week since we,” he hesitated, “—since we _broke up_. But talking about it with you makes it feel like it’s been a month or a year. You analyze everything to death. Not every single word has that much significance!” he shouted.

Alistair shook his head, “Every word means something to _me_.”

“Well, that’s _you_ ,” said Cullen emphatically. He grabbed at the handle on his right. The heavy door swung open with a creak.

Alistair chased him into the house.

 

“Maker, Al!” called Cullen from their bedroom. “What the hell happened in here?”

Alistair cringed—he had forgotten how much of a mess the house was. He rounded the corner to see Cullen standing in a pile of dirty clothes, looking horrified.

“This is dry-clean only!” he shouted, holding up a suit jacket. The scar on his upper lip twitched—a smile just barely concealed.

Alistair bit the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. He had often joked that Cullen was creepy-neat—like a serial killer. His side of the closet was lined with plastic-bag-clad suits while Alistair’s was mostly sweats and jeans in a heap.

Cullen suddenly sat on the edge of their bed. Alistair followed him.

“What are we doing?” asked Cullen. He stared at a spot on the floor unblinkingly.

“Being idiotic,” answered Alistair.

“Do you love me?” asked Cullen quietly. His voice was soft--no longer sharp and biting.

“ _Of course_ ,” said Alistair. He flopped backward on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. “I almost think I love you _too_ much.”

Cullen laid next to him and gripped his hand between them. “What does that mean?”

“Like,” Alistair tried to find the most appropriate words, but it proved difficult, “like I love you so much that I have unreasonably high expectations for you… I built this up in my mind for years and years, so when things don’t go perfectly…”

“—it’s disappointing,” Cullen finished his sentence for him.

In unison they turned on their sides so they were looking into each other’s eyes.

“It’s not that _you’re_ a disappointment,” said Alistair softly, “it’s just that no one could _ever_ be what I imagined you to be like.”

“A long time ago, you told me you wanted a _whirlwind_ romance—something out of a novel,” said Cullen. He smiled at the memory, “Do you remember that?”

Alistair nodded.

“Well, I always thought that sounded _exhausting_ …” he swallowed hard, “...but I think you got your wish—are you tired?”

Alistair smirked. “I’m tired…”

They scooted closer to each other in the silence.

“But I’d rather be tired with you than well rested with anyone else,” said Alistair.

Cullen kissed him, “me too.”


	21. Merry Christmas, Al

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair spends Christmas with Cullen's family. 
> 
> Heavily edited and reposted.

**Alistair**

**Christmas 2026**

“Merry Christmas, Cullen,” said Alistair.        

“Merry Christmas,” smirked Cullen. “Are you ready?”

Alistair peered down the long row of quaint houses—each one more ostentatiously decorated than the last. He breathed deeply, trying to steady himself, and then gripped Cullen’s hand. “Ready.”

On the other side of the door, a boisterous crowd was laughing and shouting congratulations. Alistair was hugged by people he didn’t even know as his coat and scarf were pulled from his shoulders.

“You two should have told us sooner!” said Rosalie. Cullen’s youngest sister was feigning cross, but her eyes were sparkling brightly. “Alistair, you’ve always been my _favorite_!” she laughed.

Alistair brimmed with something like pride and squeezed Cullen’s hand a bit tighter.

“Daddy!” shrieked Mia. She popped out from around the corner and wrapped her arms around Cullen’s legs. “Are you feeling better?” she asked, not letting go.

“Much,” said Cullen. He hinged at the waist and whisked Mia into the air. She shrieked in delight.

“Alistair!” she laughed, “help!” She reached her arms in his direction and he pulled her across the air to his hip. The crowd swooned.

“It’s wonderful to see you again,” said Cullen’s other sister. Mia-- _Little Mia_ ’s namesake--was nearly the same age as Cullen, but she always seemed much more mature. Even in her early 20s, Alistair thought of her as the head of Cullen’s family.

“You too,” said Alistair. He kissed her cheek and blushed. “Thank you for calling me… Cullen was about to let the holiday pass unnoticed.” He jabbed Cullen in the ribs with his elbow and winked.

“Yeah, well,” said Mia, “that’s my brother for you…” She rolled her eyes, but smiled.

Little Mia slid and wriggled out of Alistair’s arms and ran down the hall where her cousins were laughing. Before she disappeared, she turned and waved to Alistair as if to say, ‘ _I’m fine. I’ll see you later._ ”

“So,” asked Rosalie, “What are your plans for the rest of the holiday?” She linked an arm with each of her siblings and leaned her head on Cullen’s shoulder.

“I’m not sure,” began Cullen. “I haven’t celebrated much in the last few years… what have you done, Al?”

Alistair had always loved Christmas. For as long as he could remember, he would visit Massachusetts and spend the entire week sleeping in his childhood bedroom.

“I usually go see my family… but I didn’t make any specific plans this year…” mumbled Alistair.

“You’re with your family _now_ ,” said Rosalie.

Cullen bit his bottom lip. Alistair beamed.

“Shall we?” asked Mia. She gestured to the long dining room table. It was expertly appointed, Alistair noticed. There were placecards with each guest’s name written in calligraphy.

Cullen and Alistair were seated across from each other. Rosalie was sitting on Alistair’s left. Her boyfriend was next to Cullen. Alistair watched Cullen’s face as Rosalie’s boyfriend spoke—Cullen looked like he was waiting for an excuse to kill him. Alistair wondered what Cullen would be like when Mia was grown up enough to have a significant other over the house. Alistair shuddered on behalf of that poor boy or girl. On Cullen’s other side, another cousin was laughing. He couldn’t have been older than two. Cullen peeked out from behind his napkin and the child shrieked.

“So,” said Rosalie, leaning toward Alistair’s lapel, “are you going to have kids?”

Alistair almost spit the wine he was attempting to swallow. He had never considered having children with anyone. When he married Bella, it was never even on the table. He told her point blank that he was _never_ having children. If that was non-negotiable for her, she should get out before it was too late. Today, though, with Cullen sitting across from him, looking handsome and fiercely loyal to his family… it gave Alistair pause. Morbidly, he sighed. This whole realization had come _too late_ —Cullen would be _gone_ before they got the chance.

“We haven’t talked about it,” said Alistair truthfully. “But anything’s _possible_ , I suppose?” Cullen _majorly_ downplayed his condition with his family. Alistair thought it was a bad idea, but he knew it wasn’t his decision to make.

Rosalie smiled up at him, “Couldn’t you just picture Mia with a little brother?”

Alistair blushed—for the first time he _could_ picture it. In his mind’s eye the little boy looked just like him—ruddy hair and freckles across his nose. He wasn’t sure how such a thing would be _possible_ , but it didn’t matter. He had never before— _in his life_ —imagined children who hugged him and called him Dad. Something had changed. _Cullen_ had changed him.

Alistair realized he was staring when Cullen shot him a skeptical look.

“Are you okay?” mouthed Cullen.

Alistair nodded.

“So, Rosalie,” he turned back to Cullen’s little sister with new vigor, “I heard you’ve been promoted to partner at your firm?”

The conversations wafted over him like warm ocean waves. Never before had he felt so at home.

 

* * *

 

 

“That was fun,” said Cullen that night. “I didn’t think we were ever going to be able to sneak off to bed, though.”

“Yeah,” laughed Alistair, “your family really knows how to party.” He pulled his shirt off over his head and flopped down into the bed.

Downstairs, he could hear someone shout and a round of applause.

“They’ll be up for a few more hours _at least_ ,” said Cullen, pulling back the covers.

Alistair rolled over Cullen and supported himself on one arm. “Do you think we’re going to get to do other things with your family now?”

“What do you mean?” asked Cullen.

“Like…” Alistair tried to think of an appropriate example, but somewhat failed. “...camping... or going to art galleries… or other holidays or… something?”

“Yeah, I’m sure we will,” answered Cullen.

“It _would_ be nice if Mia had other children to play with,” said Alistair. It was a leading question; he wasn’t even sure why he was asking it.

“Yeah,” Cullen put a hand on Alistair’s cheek, but eyed him warily, “I guess so.”

Alistair twirled a finger in the curls near Cullen’s ear. “Do you ever think about…” he almost lost his nerve, “having any _other_ children? ...like adopting them?”

“Not really,” said Cullen. “Why?”

“I was just wondering,” mumbled Alistair.

“To be honest I never thought _you’d_ ask me that—you hate children,” said Cullen. His voice was incredulous.

“It’s not that I _hate_ them,” said Alistair, “it’s just that I never wanted them...before…”

Cullen smirked, “what are you trying to tell me, exactly?”

“Nothing actually,” said Alistair. He rolled his eyes. “I don’t _want_ children… it’s just that your sister asked me about it today and for the first time I had to _consider_ it. I didn’t say _no_ outright.” He paused to see what Cullen would say, but he stayed silent. “So…” he continued tentatively, “you’ve ruined me in some way.”

“Al,” said Cullen softly, “There wouldn’t be time…” his eyes were sad. “That’s _why_ —why I haven’t considered it.” He cocked his head to the side and smiled. “But I _would_ —with _you._ ”

Alistair bit his lip. In all the turmoil of the last few months he had never actually followed through on becoming an organ donor. He had received a call from the lab weeks ago, but he’d never had the strength to call them back. Something about the _finality_ of that option in the face of their crumbling relationship didn’t feel right. He’d resisted it gutturally. And Cullen had seemed so _healthy_ —even his weekend stay at the hospital hadn’t been serious. His labs were good, he was actually getting stronger. The realities of their situation had been easier to ignore. _Now_ , though, he knew what he needed to do—as soon as they got home.

He managed to shake off the feeling of dread before Cullen said anything else. “Well, it’s for the best, I think. Mia would be a _grouchy_ big sister—she needs a lot of personalized attention,” he joked.

They were suddenly laughing and kissing and rolling—the sheets a sea of tumultuous waves.

“You better pinch me,” Alistair said suddenly.

“What?” asked Cullen.

“I'm not sure I'm awake,” joked Alistair.

Cullen's chest shook with laughter and crushed Alistair into a hug.

“I love you.” said Cullen, “now go to sleep.”

“But what if I'm _already_ sleeping?”

“You are so weird…” Cullen eyed Alistair appraisingly, “but I love you…. Now goodnight!”


	22. Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as Cullen and Alistair are finally beginning to settle as a couple, tragedy strikes.
> 
> We're now just two chapters away from the end... it's been a wild ride, readers. Thank you again for all your awesome feedback and your continued support. :)

**January 2027**

**Cullen**

            “Sit down!” laughed Cullen.

            “I’m coming…” called Alistair through a particularly boyish smile. “You _know_ this is my favorite time of year…” He sat next to Cullen on the sofa and handed him a bowl of popcorn.

            “Yeah… because maybe we’ll finally get a _real_ president—a republican…” laughed Cullen. He jabbed an elbow into Alistair’s side.

            “Yeah, so our lifestyle can be again assaulted… _perfect,_ ” said Alistair. His tone was mocking, but he was barely concealing a smile.

            “This isn’t 2016… no one cares about that anymore,” said Cullen. He draped his arm around Alistair’s shoulders kissed the expanse of skin between his shoulder and neck. “I love you, you know.”

            Alistair smiled, “I love you too,” he paused, “but I _hate_ your politics.”

            Cullen laughed and turned back toward the screen. The first of the official presidential debates was about to begin. The 2028 election was shaping up to be groundbreaking. The Democratic frontrunner was Chelsea Clinton—daughter of two former presidents. Cullen thought it was ridiculously like a dynasty, but Alistair had been canvassing their neighborhood with “My President Chelsea” signs for months. Watching the debates together had become a tradition. It was _rooted_ in history, though.

            “Do you remember the 2008 election?” asked Cullen suddenly.

            “Of course!” said Alistair. “I _cried_ when they announced Obama.”

            Cullen laughed, “Yeah… I cried too… for different reasons.”

            “You’re the _worst_ ,” said Alistair. Cullen was nearly immune to this adage now.

            Although Cullen was _mostly_ kidding, he knew that if he pushed Alistair too hard about politics they would end up fighting. They had once stopped speaking for an entire week over a documentary about socialized healthcare. Cullen wasn’t eager to repeat that.

            “Anyway,” Cullen began again, “Remember how you insisted that we watch the debates together?”

            “Even though you were infuriating?” asked Alistair.

            “…even though I was _far_ more rational than you were…” joked Cullen. “That was the most adorable thing.”

            “ _What_ was?” asked Alistair.

            “That you wanted to watch the debate with me even though it made you crazy,” concluded Cullen.

            “I wanted to do _everything_ with you,” said Alistair.

            “Me too…” said Cullen. He pushed a wayward piece of too-long hair behind Alistair’s right ear and sighed, “I still do, apparently.”

            They both laughed.

 

* * *

 

            Outside the window, Cullen saw headlights. “Are you expecting anyone?”

            “No,” answered Alistair. “Although I’ve been thinking about having debate parties…”

            They watched as the car came to a stop and the headlights extinguished. Cullen still couldn’t see who it was. He stood.

            “Hey, Anderson Cooper just started introducing the candidates… as we if don’t know them at this point… Babe, you’re _missing_ it,” said Alistair, his mouth full of popcorn.

            “Pause it,” said Cullen, pushing on his shoes.

            “We’re not going to be able to live-tweet if we get too far behind…” Alistair grumbled rhetorically.

            Cullen laughed as he walked down the hallway to their front door.

            The car was familiar now that he was outside and its driver was too.

            “Icis?” called Cullen tentatively. “What’s going on?”

            Icis rounded the front of the car and opened the passenger-side back door. Mia was strapped into her booster seat, but looked like she might be sleeping. Icis turned to look at Cullen before she unbuckled Mia. Her expression made Cullen feel weak—something was wrong.

            “Icis, are you okay?” asked Cullen, coming up next to her. He put a palm between her shoulder blades and craned his neck until they were eye to eye.

            When she raised her chin to look at him, her face was illuminated in the streetlight. Her tanned skin was framed by silver-blonde curls and looked hauntingly beautiful, but the lines around her mouth suggested she was barely holding it together.

            “It’s Mia…” she whispered. Her eyes were wide.

            Cullen’s breath caught as he peered around the open door to look at his sleeping daughter. Her cheeks were flushed and beads of sweat were evident across her brow.

            “Let’s bring her inside,” said Cullen. He gingerly unbuckled the straps of the car seat and draped Mia over his shoulder. She stirred, but didn’t wake.

            “I was going to bring her to the hospital, but I wanted you to look at her first,” said Icis, trailing two steps behind him.

            Cullen nodded.

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

            “What’s going on?” asked Alistair, standing from the couch.

            Icis shot him a nasty glare as she rounded the corner into the living room.

            Alistair was stressed whenever issues arose with Mia. She wasn’t his daughter, but he was certainly involved in her life. Still, he didn’t want to overstep.

            “She’s got a nasty fever,” said Cullen, laying her onto the couch. “Probably just a virus,” he said. His tone wasn’t right, though. Alistair knew the voice he used for patients—the one that was meant to diffuse tension and not sound any alarms. He was using it now.

            Icis’ brow knit as she sat on the other end of the sofa, near Mia’s feet.

            Alistair turned off the TV—it seemed suddenly inappropriate to fight about political sound-bites.

            “Can I help?” asked Alistair. He was looking at Cullen, but Icis shook her head in his direction.

            “Thanks,” said Cullen. He was sitting on the edge of the couch taking Mia’s pulse. “Would you just grab my bag from upstairs? I want to take her vitals…”

            Alistair nodded. On the way up the stairs, he exhaled sharply and realized he had been holding his breath. He wasn’t sure why. Kids got sick— _all the time_. Something about the way Cullen was handling this made him worry, though. He found the bag under the corner of their bed and opened it to make sure his stethoscope and sphygmomanometer were inside. On the inside pocket was a tiny shred of paper in Cullen’s sharp handwriting.

            “Darling,” it began, “I hope you’ll take these when I’m gone. I know you have your own set, but I’d love to know these are being used.”

            Alistair tasted bile. He couldn’t imagine Cullen actually dying. They had known it was coming since the start, but thinking about losing him after all this was—unconscionable.

            “Shit,” he whispered.

            Alistair suddenly knew what was wrong—Cullen thought Mia might be dying too.

            Alistair raced back downstairs and started to think about the situation critically. Mia was lying, motionless, on the couch. She had barely stirred since coming inside and her whole body was slightly glistening with cold sweat. Her chest rose and fell raggedly.

            “Cullen, what was her pulse?”

            “96, thready,” said Cullen. His voice was quiet and measured.

            “Hand me that cuff,” said Alistair. He put his stethoscope in his ears and pulled the cuff tight around Mia’s tiny arm.

            “Mia,” he said gently shaking her awake. “I need to take your blood pressure, okay?” The little girl looked up at him through bleary eyes. She seemed to understand though, because she nodded.

            He pumped the cuff up high and watched the needle jump as he slowly let the air out. “90/40” he said.

            Cullen looked at him with wide eyes. They looked darker now than usual.

            “We need to get her to a hospital,” said Alistair quietly. He didn't want to insight alarm, but her subdued demeanor and weak vitals weren't good signs. They were just like Cullen’s when he was having an episode.

            “All right, sweetheart,” said Cullen as he gently pulled Mia into his arms, “we're going to go get some testing done now, okay?”

            Mia nodded and rubbed the back of her neck with a shaking palm. Alistair shivered—it was so like something Cullen would have done.

 

* * *

 

            Although this was the hospital where Alistair had privileges, he didn't attempt to go into the examination room with them. He thought Icis might have exploded. She had been tolerant of this whole arrangement to a point, but when it came to Mia she drew a line.

            The waiting room smelled faintly of cleaning supplies. It stung Alistair's nose. He kept checking his phone for updates from Cullen, but none came. Instead, he decided to text Isabela.

                        Alistair: hey, I'm at the hospital with Cullen. He's ok… But Mia isn't.

                        Isabela: what? What happened to her?

                        Alistair: we don't know exactly. I have a bad feeling that there is something really wrong, though.

                        Isabela: want me to come down there?

                        Alistair: it's ok… You don't have to.

                        Isabela: I'll be right there.

 

            Alistair smiled down at the phone. He knew he could always depend on her.

            20 minutes later Isabela arrived. Her steps were hurried, but measured. Each footfall perfectly timed for efficiency. Alistair admired her.

            “Hey,” said Alistair, “thanks for coming.”

            “Of course,” answered Isabela. “Have you heard anything yet?”

            “Not yet…” Alistair pushed a hand through his hair, “I should have gone in there with them. I was afraid of Icis, though… Now I wish I'd just done it.”

            “Can't you just go check the chart?” asked Isabela.

            “I guess, but I'm… I’m worried about doing that,” admitted Alistair.

            “Why?”

            “Because I don't want to see that she's dying too—that she also needs a transplant…” he trailed off.

            “Alistair—” interrupted Isabela, “Cullen needs a transplant? I thought that wasn't an option…”

            Alistair realized he hadn't talked to her—or anyone else—about this for months. In the calm of the last few months, Alistair had fallen into denial about the whole thing—Cullen seemed so _healthy_. “Doc figured it out…” He paused, not sure he should say what he was thinking.

            “What are you not telling me?” she looked incredulous.

            “...I got tested. I'm a match…” he said. He looked into Isabela's eyes, misery settling into his gut. “...but Cullen has Alport Syndrome—it’s genetically inherited…”

            “You're afraid that Mia…” she closed her eyes painfully and exhaled through pursed lips.

            “She's going to need this kidney instead,” he finished her sentence.  “ _If_ she's a match. But why wouldn’t she be? The chances were _incredibly_ small that I could give one to Cullen… After those kind of odds, it’s not much of a stretch to think that _she_ …” Alistair wasn't looking at Isabela. His eyes lost focus somewhere on the linoleum in front of them.

            “What does Cullen think?” asked Isabela.

            “I haven't told him,” said Alistair, still not looking up. “I just got the results… I was waiting for the right time.”

            “Are you _insane_?” Isabela whispered with the intensity of a yell. She looked like she was on the verge of actual anger—a look Alistair hadn’t seen often. “When has keeping secrets from Cullen _ever_ been beneficial for you?”

            Alistair swallowed hard—she was _certainly_ right about that.

            Isabela gripped Alistair’s hand on his knee and smiled.

            “You’re right… I need to talk to him…” said Alistair quietly.

            “I’ll wait right here in case you need a quick get-away,” joked Isabela.

            Alistair smiled as he rose.

            “Hi,” said Alistair as he approached the gatekeeper of the emergency ward. This wasn’t a part of the hospital he frequented, so he didn’t know her. She was a gruff-looking woman who could have been 30 or 50—there was no way to be sure.

            “I’m Dr. Theirin,” he began, “I need to know where Mia Rutherford has been taken, please.”

            The gate-keeping lady looked up at him skeptically and snapped her pink-colored gum audibly before answering. A small line of spit escaped with the bubble. Alistair tried not to make a disgusted face. She swiped her finger across the screen in front of her and narrowed her eyes.

            “Are you _family_?” she asked grouchily.

            “No,” said Alistair lamely. They weren’t married; he had no claim to her, actually. It was the first time since Australia that he _wished_ he’d married Cullen. This grouchy, ageless, woman was standing between them because of a few missing signatures. When Bella and Alistair finally separated, he promised himself he would never get married again. It wasn’t that he thought the institution was terrible, it was mostly that he wanted to _honor_ Bella in some small way. After all, she had never done anything wrong. She was a paragon of virtue and valor, actually. The way she handled the whole thing was so much better than he would have in her position. It would feel like a betrayal to have another wedding—even an elopement; even to the man he loved.

            “I have privileges in this hospital, though,” added Alistair quickly. He produced a badge from his pocket.

            “Not in this department,” croaked the woman, without even glancing at his identification.

            Alistair’s eyes narrowed.

            “Listen,” he leaned into the open sliding glass window. His shoulders filled it from edge to edge, blocking her view of the rest of the waiting room. “Mia’s father is my partner—we’re not married… we just weren’t into it… but that little girl lives with me every other week.”

            The woman didn’t look impressed.

            Alistair wanted to strangle her through the window, but he resisted the urge. He had long ago decided to stop being a hothead. Instead, he leaned back outside the window and let his shoulders slump. He turned back toward Isabela and shook his head. He heard the little glass door slam behind him—its owner safely protected by double-panes.

            “What happened?” asked Isabela.

            “I’m not getting in…” said Alistair darkly. “We’re going to have to wait.”

* * *

 

**2 Hours Later**

**Cullen**

            “Al,” called Cullen, searching the waiting room for Alistair’s familiar face or shoulders or ruddy hair. “Al?” he called again, a bit louder.

            “I’m here,” said a voice behind him. Alistair and Isabela were coming down the hallway toward him, holding coffee.

            “What’s going on?” asked Isabela, gripping Cullen’s shoulder.

            “Glomerulonephritis,” he said. “...it’s the first sign…she has it too,” he mumbled. He could barely form sentences.

            Cullen watched the color drain out of Alistair’s face. He reached out for him instinctively.

            “What can we do for you?” asked Isabela.

            “I don’t know,” said Cullen seriously. “I’m going to head back in there in a minute. I just wanted to come out to give you two an update.”

            “I’ll come back with you,” said Alistair.

            Cullen put a hand gently on Alistair’s chest. “They’re only letting family in right now,” he said quietly.

            Alistair looked dejected.

            “I’m sorry, Al,” said Cullen.

            “It’s not your fault,” answered Alistair. His voice was soft.

            “I love you,” said Cullen. “I’ll come back out to see you as soon as I can… and I’ll text you if there are any updates.”

            Cullen gripped Alistair’s hand and squeezed it. In normal situations, this was the most Cullen would have initiated in public, but something was changing in him. He grabbed Alistair around the waist and pulled him into the tightest of hugs.

            Alistair sighed into Cullen’s hair.

            Cullen kissed his cheek nuzzled into his neck. It might have been the longest hug he’d ever had in his life, but it wasn’t long enough.

            “Go take care of your girl,” said Alistair. His eyes were glassy and he sniffled slightly as they separated.

            “Our girl,” corrected Cullen.


	23. Scotch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair has something to tell Cullen—again. 
> 
> The night of the accident juxtaposed with a new revelation in 2027.

* * *

 

**Winter 2016 - The Night of the Accident**

**Alistair**

 

Scotch spilled over the lip of the bottle onto Alistair’s forefinger. His hands were shaking.

 _This is your last shot. You already screwed it up back in November_ — _it’s now or never._

“Cullen, I need to talk to you,” he began. His voice sounded foreign as it passed his lips.

“Okay,” said Cullen. He sat easily on the edge of the couch and brushed a hand through his hair.

 _He has no idea_.

Alistair cleared his throat and pretended to sip from the edge of his glass. “I’m crazy about you.”

Cullen blinked.

“I know that sounds insane,” said Alistair. “...I mean, I really hate almost everything about you… it’s just that the parts I _love_ …” he exhaled, “I love them disproportionately.” He made scales with his palms and unbalanced them to illustrate his point.

Cullen still didn’t say anything.

“I’ve felt this way for a long time,” continued Alistair, “I don’t even _know_ how long—I convinced myself I didn’t for years.” His voice was starting to quiver, but he had come too far to retreat.

Cullen’s mouth twitched. Alistair waited, but Cullen didn’t say anything.

“Okay,” said Alistair, a bit more bravely, “can we be _honest_ for just a second?”

Cullen managed a perfunctory nod.

“This whole time… there’s been _something_ here,” he hoped his voice didn’t sound condescending--still, the whole thing seemed so _obvious_ to him. “I mean… you’ve felt it, haven’t you?”

Cullen swallowed audibly.

“Well, _I_ have,” said Alistair. “— _viscerally_. Whenever I’m around you it’s like my guts are being ripped out…”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed.

“...and when you told me you were getting married—I lost my damn mind.” Alistair _laughed_ \--he was on the verge of nervous hysteria.

Cullen took a large sip of his drink and swallowed hard.

“I just thought that eventually I’d forget you,” continued Alistair. “ _I tried._ There was a period following our graduation where we didn’t talk for a month. I _specifically_ did not call. The exact day that I thought I was cured, you called me--out of the blue… just to say hello.” Alistair smiled at the memory, but Cullen didn’t meet his gaze. “You said you thought about me **constantly**. You used that _exact_ word... Being around you is excruciating. But I can’t avoid it. We’re linked—inextricably, it seems.  ...because those _few_ moments… the ones where we really communicate—they’re _worth it_.”

 

* * *

 

**Cullen**

**January 2027**

“Al,” began Cullen, “you’re shaking.”

Alistair put down his glass on the corner of the island and let his shoulders relax from their tense position near his ears.

“Hey.” Cullen wound his arms around Alistair’s chest and rested his cheek on the branch of his neck. “You don’t have to be scared to tell me what you think anymore.” His voice was sad, but there was a hint of a bittersweet joke in his tone.

“Cullen, I need to tell you something.”

“So tell me,” said Cullen. He dragged Alistair to the couch by his arm.

“I’m a match,” said Alistair quietly.

“You’re _what_?” said Cullen. He’d heard him—he just didn’t _believe_ it.

“The results came back last week,” said Alistair. “It’s morbidly funny, really… I am a nearly _perfect_ donor for you—even your sisters weren’t.”

“My sisters?” parroted Cullen.

“Yeah… we all got tested… for you.” Alistair’s big brown eyes locked onto his for the first time all night. “...but... _I’m_ the only match.”

Cullen was putting together the pieces faster than his conscious mind would let him process it. Mia needed a kidney. Alistair had one to give. He _couldn’t_ give two.

_I’m going to die._

The words floated through his consciousness. It all felt ridiculous upon closer inspection. He had _known_ he was going to die for a whole year. Alistair had too. Somehow, though, between all the fighting and making up, he’d forgotten where this was heading. He thought some roads would have led out of the woods—but none really could.

Cullen straightened and squeezed Alistair’s knee on the couch between them.  “Well,” he said, “we know what we have to do then…” He stared out the window over Alistair’s shoulder without truly seeing.

“Cullen, I _need_ you. I don’t think I can _do_ this.”

Cullen knew Alistair was on the edge. In his detached state, he could see the threads of conversation weaving themselves into a fully formed tapestry of outcomes. There was only one true option, though.

“ _Mia_ needs you,” said Cullen plainly.

Alistair gasped and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth.

“You’re _so_ brave,” said Cullen. He wasn’t going to give Alistair the option to argue. They both knew what they had to do. He cupped Alistair’s cheek in his hand and smiled feebly. Alistair’s face had grown pale. Cullen wanted to tell him everything was going to be all right, but it certainly _wasn’t_. Platitudes wouldn’t help.

Alistair stood abruptly enough that Cullen’s weight sank into the couch, throwing him off balance.

Cullen didn’t move. Knowing he was going to die—again—made him feel weaker. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“I need some air,” called Alistair from the hallway.

Cullen winced as the door slammed. Mechanically, he rose and walked down the hallway. Outside the window, he could see Alistair’s silhouette. The twilight obscured his expression, but Cullen knew what it would be anyway. He knew enough not to chase him in this state. Ironically, Cullen wanted to be _together_ —a rare feeling for him—at the exact moment Alistair _needed_ to be alone.

 


	24. Boyish and Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story's conclusion.
> 
> Thank you so much to all the fans who have supported this fic since the beginning. I really appreciate your continued interest and all the time you've taken to reach out to me during the course of this project. Look out for new projects soon. :)

**February 2027**

**Cullen**

“Love me enough to let me die,” said Cullen. His eyes were wet. He wanted to wipe the tears away from his face, but his arms felt like weights at his sides. Just a few weeks ago, he had been up and around—his decline had come quickly.

“I can’t, Cullen,” sputtered Alistair, “I just _can’t_.” He wiped his face on his sleeve and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears spilled over the bottom lids. This had been his adage at every step--Cullen knew he’d come through it.

Cullen smiled faintly. “Al… you’re stronger than you think.”

Alistair breathed through a sob and let his face fall against Cullen’s chest.

“Now go,” finished Cullen.

“I love you,” whispered Alistair. All at once, he rose and ran toward the door without looking back.

If Cullen had known he would never see him again he might have said something different--something _more_. But death—even impending, certain, _expected_ , death—had a way of sneaking up on people.

 

Mia was already at the hospital with Icis. She was being prepped for surgery. The only step left was Alistair’s arrival. Cullen originally planned to go to the hospital to be with his family, but his condition had progressed significantly enough that he hadn’t left his bed in a week. The _indignity_ of it affected Cullen the most. He needed help to stand, to go to the bathroom, to bathe. Alistair had been wonderful during this horrible situation. When Cullen woke in the night—several times—Alistair read to him until he fell back to sleep. Despite the blinding fog of despair hovering around every corner, Cullen thought it was the sweetest time in their whole lives.

Cullen reached for his phone and began recording:

“Hi Al,” he began. “You’re out… saving Mia.” He paused, gathering his strength, “I love you more now than I ever have. I _love_ you for letting me die.” His voice started to falter. “You’re going to get through this, you know…” A tear rolled down his cheek onto the pillow. “I hope you find someone wonderful—someone brave and smart and good-looking.” He _almost_ laughed. “Most of all, I hope you’re happy. I hope you don’t let this stop you.”

Cullen dropped the phone. His hands were shaking.

 

An hour later, Cullen’s vision was starting to blur around the edges. He blinked with effort and his chest rose and fell with a rasping, gurgling noise.

_So this is what dying feels like._

His fingers, which had been tingling for a few days, were now numb and he wasn’t sure if he was moving them or not as he imagined making fists. Warmth surged through his chest, but his limbs were cold. It was like the entire world was becoming bigger while he vanished into a tiny point of light and thought. In his last moments before darkness surrounded him, he imagined Alistair at 22—making the trek from school to his apartment. Cullen timed his steps to catch him.

“Where are you staying?” he asked, _“Stay with me?”_ he meant.

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

At that moment, Alistair realized he’d never believed it. His denial had been pervasive. From beneath the nitrous oxide mask, he looked across the hospital room at the monitors and whispering nurses.

“Count back from 10,” said the anesthesiologist.

“10,” said Alistair.

As his field of vision became a snowscape, Alistair could see his whole life: his childhood room. The street he grew up on. Cullen’s smirk with the deeper left dimple. _Australia_.

“9,” he continued.

The world danced with black spots. He was in bed with Cullen. Christmas. The debates.

“8… 7….”

Everything went black.

 

* * *

 

**Spring 2037**

**Mia**

 

Mia walked quickly around the corner. She kept looking over her shoulder—she felt like someone was following her. She _knew_ that wasn’t true, of course. No one would think walking down this particular street in the middle of the afternoon was odd—no one but _her._

When she arrived on the doorstep, she faltered. As her hand came close enough to make contact with the door, she almost pulled away, but willed herself not to. It resulted in her hand being suspended in midair, halfway between knocking and retreating into her coat pocket.

“Come on, Mia,” she whispered to herself, “you can do this.”

At seventeen she was braver than most girls she knew—definitely braver than the boys, who hadn’t begun to mature into miniature adults yet. She attributed this to her life—she had been through a lot before she even got her braces or developed her first crush. _So much sacrifice._

At the exact second she decided to turn and run away from the imposing white door, it opened. Alistair sucked in air through pursed lips and looked as frozen as she felt.

“Hi, Al,” she said.

Alistair regained his composure partially—enough to motion for her to enter--but he didn’t speak.

“I’m—” she knew she was about to make small talk— _how embarrassingly inappropriate_ , “—I’m sorry to just drop by like this… after so _long_ …” she trailed off.

“Don’t be,” said Alistair.

His first words to her were rushed and croaked out of his throat like they might be stifling tears. His smile was bright though. She could see where the years had made creases around his eyes and where his cheeks had lost some of their fullness, but he was still the same Alistair she remembered.

“I came to talk to you…” said Mia.

“Can I get you some tea?” asked Alistair abruptly. “I was just making some…”

“No, thank you, though,” she said politely.

“I might need more than tea, to be honest…” he laughed.

Mia ran a hand through her sandy blonde hair and breathed out audibly, releasing the tension she felt building through her shoulders. Her fingers found their way to the back of her neck.

“He did that, you know,” said Alistair, pointing to her palm. “All the time—it was like his signature move.” Alistair smiled with his lips, but his eyes were sad.

Mia pulled her hand away and sat awkwardly on the edge of the couch. It wasn’t the same couch she remembered from her youth, but it _was_ the same living room.

“So,” said Alistair, sitting next to her, “What did you come here to ask me?”

Mia bit her lip and clenched her jaw, “I wanted to know if you’d let me stay with you…”

Alistair’s brow knit.

“Um,” continued Mia, “I’ve been accepted to the university— _undergrad_ , I’m about to graduate high school—” she stumbled over the words hastily, “...and I _want_ to go, but my mom isn’t thrilled about it—she treats me like I’m made of glass…” Mia knew she was rambling, but she _had_ to get to the end. “And I just thought… if there was anyone who would think I should go out on my own… make my own decisions… do things that were _brave_ … it would be _you._ ”

Alistair squished one side of his face in his palm and sighed. “I really don’t want to interfere with… _anything_ …” he trailed off.

“It’s not interfering,” she interrupted. Her hand gripped his arm unintentionally. As she touched the soft fabric of his sweater, their eyes met. Before she knew what was happening, there were tears spilling onto her cheeks. It was unexpected—embarrassing. _What is going on_? she thought, horrified.

Alistair grabbed her and dragged her across the sofa into a hug, “I know, I _know_ ,” he whispered. His own voice cracked and broke.

“I’m so sorry that I haven’t seen you until now,” she sobbed.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” said Alistair. He gently rubbed her back while she cried into his chest. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“But Al,” she pulled back, her lip quivering, “I never got to say goodbye—to _either_ of you.”

Mia avoided saying this out loud usually. In the ten years since her father died, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d talked about it. She regretted that she wasn’t there when her father passed. That regret was second _only_ to the fact that her surgery made it so Alistair wasn’t with him either. He died in their home— _here_ —alone.

“He knew you loved him,” said Alistair. His voice was steady for the first time since she arrived--he sounded so sure. “And he loved you-- _so_ much.”

Mia tried to stop crying, but she couldn’t, so she just nodded.

There was one other thing Mia needed to ask—it was the actual reason she’d come all the way over here. The _actual_ reason she’d felt so awkward on the stoop. The _actual_ reason she was crying. “Why didn’t you ever come see me? Afterward… I mean…”

Alistair looked like she had punched him in the gut.

“I couldn’t—” he stammered. “I just _couldn’t_. I tried to,” he continued looking out the window, “I used to drive to your house… and I had every intention of ringing the doorbell… but I could never get out of the car.”

Mia’s chest hurt. “I almost did that today,” she admitted.

Alistair smiled, “but see? You’re so much _braver_ than I ever was.”

 

* * *

 

**October 2037**

**Alistair**

In the months that followed, Mia came to Alistair’s house a lot and eventually Icis acquiesced to her idea of staying with him a few nights each week. Each evening she would flop down next to him on the sofa and tell him what was happening at school and how her classes were going. Alistair looked forward to the nights she stayed not _only_ because he loved her like a daughter, but because he genuinely _liked_ her too. Whenever she came over he reveled in the jokes they told and the stories she had.

They were in a habit of looking through all his things from the last 10 years. Today, Alistair had procured a photo album from the one and only Christmas they all spent together at Cullen’s sister’s house. He found the battered book in the attic. When he first glanced it, he thought his knees were going to give out. He spent an hour sitting on the dusty floor, paging through its yellowed photos. He wept, silently tracing each face. Ten years was a long time, but not long enough to forget—his chest ached with each inhalation.

“Hi Al!” said Mia as she dropped her things in the hallway.

“Mia,” he called, “I’m upstairs!”

He heard her run up the shaking staircase to the attic and tried to wipe the tears from his eyes.

“Whatcha looking at?” she asked, plopping down next to him.

“It’s Christmas 2026,” he said quietly, “do you remember this?”

“Of course,” said Mia. She peered over his shoulder at the weathered pages. “This was a wonderful year.”

“I remember how happy you were with your cousins,” said Alistair, “Do you see them now?”

“Not in a long time,” said Mia. “I see my mom’s family a lot…”

Alistair put an arm around her shoulder, “We should visit them,” he said suddenly.

Mia looked at him with an expression he couldn’t read.

“I haven’t seen them in ages either… but Rosalie sends me a Christmas card every year,” he explained. “I’ve wanted to reach out… maybe if you went with me…” he suggested.

“Maybe…” said Mia. She sounded hesitant.

“Well,” Alistair drew his hand back and closed the book, “No pressure…”

“Do you have any pictures from when my dad was young?” she asked. “Like… when you were in school?”

Alistair looked through the piles of things, searching with his eyes. There was a navy blue book with gold leafing that he knew housed their best graduation pictures.

“Here it is,” he called, suddenly standing. He blew on the cover and coughed at the cloud of dust that erupted in all directions.

Mia laughed, “Put it here,” she pointed to the small space in front of her crossed knees.

Alistair obliged and opened to the first page. It was a picture he remembered, but _not_ from graduation. It was far earlier—they were 23.

“He looks so healthy,” said Mia.

“He _was_ ,” said Alistair.

“—and...happy,” managed Mia.

“He always looked like that,” answered Alistair, “He had the most beautiful smile--his left dimple was always a bit deeper than the right, see?” he pointed at a picture where they were arm in arm.

“Were you together back then?” asked Mia.

Alistair raised an eyebrow, “Uh, _no_ …” he laughed, “I was _hopelessly_ in love with him, though.” His smile faded, “See? It’s written all over my face in this one.”

Mia leaned her head onto Alistair’s shoulder. He could see her smiling in his periphery. “Can you tell me the story of how you guys got together?” asked Mia.

“Maybe another time… it’s pretty long,” Alistair laughed, “and _complicated_ …”

“I can’t believe he’s really _gone_ ,” said Mia suddenly. She sat up and leaned over the pictures. “That must seem ridiculous to you... it’s been a decade—most of my life—but sometimes, when I wake up _here,_ I expect him to be downstairs making breakfast.”

Alistair knew exactly what she meant, of course. He felt that every day. Before he opened his eyes, he searched the bed with his fingertips, hoping to find Cullen’s frame or a hint of his curls. The sheets no longer smelled of oakmoss, nor elderflower, but in the space between sleeping and waking he hallucinated those scents.

“Sometimes, I don’t really know how to go on without him,” admitted Alistair.

“Me neither,” said Mia, “but that’s why I’m so glad that I have you.”

* * *

 


	25. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A note to my lovely readers.

Thank you so much for your continued support. Almost every day that I log into Ao3, I see new notes and messages about this work. I'm so glad that it touched people in the way that it did.

I'd like to take this opportunity to tell all of you about my newest project, which is similar in terms of tone to this one, but set in the canon dragon age setting, post-DAI. If any of you would like to read it, here's the link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6648481. Please subscribe! :)

 

In terms of The Proposal, I wish this story weren't over in some ways. There are so many other things I'd like to say about it. I'd love to hear from anyone who has a burning question I could answer in either an additional chapter or a ficlet. 

**EDIT: I'm updating this MORE!!! I want to know what the heck happened during those lost 10 years! Here we go!! (Starts at what is now the new chapter 9).**

 

Thank you again. I am overwhelmed by how awesome all of you are. :) 


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